I  litf 

p?     ^  <-"^* 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELER 


and   ABBOTSFORD    AND 


NEWS1  EAD 


ABBEY 


Ey  WASHINGTON  IRVING 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY:  PUB 
LISHERS  :  9  &  ii  E.  SIXTEENTH 
STREET  :  NEW  YORK  CITY  :  1900 


£070 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


CONTENTS 


PART  FIRST. 

STRANGE  STORIES  BY  A  NERVOUS  GENTLEMAN. 

A  Hunting  Dinner 

Adventure  of  my  Uncle '    JQ 

Adventure  of  my  Aunt  01 

Bold  Dragoon n. 

Adventure  of  the  Mysterious  Picture 

Adventure  of  the  Mysterious  Stranger 

^Story  of  the  Young  Italian 

PART    SECOND. 

BUCKTHORNE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

Literary  Life 

Literary  Dinner ij 

Club  of  Queer  Fellows '.'.'".'.'. 

Poor  Devil  Author ..  '"' ' 

Buckthorne ;  or,  the  Young  Man  of  Great  Expectations' 
>X   Grave  Reflections  of  a  Disappointed  Man 
Booby  Squire 

Strolling  Manager 

143 

PART  THIRD. 

THE  ITALIAN  BANDITTI. 


^ 


Inn  at  Terracina 

Adventure  of  the  Little  Antiquary 

Adventure  of  the  Popkins  Family '.'. 

Painter's  Adventure 

Story  of  the  Bandit  Chieftain .... 

Story  of  the  Young  Robtw,^.,^,^^.,  2 


4  CONTENTS. 

PART  FOURTH. 

THE  MONEY-DIGGERS. 
Hell  Gate 


PAGE 

..  207 
.,  209 


Kidd,  the  Pirate 

-Devil  and  Tom  Walker • S13 

.Wolfert  Webber;  or,  Golden  Dreams.—- — ,•••  2*5 

Adventure  of  Sam,  the  Black  Fiahenmui..  u  ...«..* i.* *«•-.-•  80 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  FIRST. 


STRANGE  STORIES  BY  A  NERVOUS  GENTLEMAN. 

I'll  tell  you  more;  there  was  a  fish  taken, 

A  monstrous  fish,  with  a  sword  by's  side,  a  long  sword, 

A  pike  in's  neck,  and  a  gun  in's  nose,  a  huge  gun, 

And  letters  of  mart  in's  mouth,  from  the  Duke  of  Florence. 

Cleanthes.    This  is  a  monstrous  lie. 

Tony.    I  do  confess  it. 
Do  you  think  I'd  tell  you  truths? 

FLETCHER'S  WIFE  FOR  A  MONTH. 

[The  following  .adventures  were  related  to  me  by  the  same 
nervous  gentleman  who  told  me  the  romantic  tale  of  THE  STOUT 
GENTLEMAN,  published  in  Bracebridge  Hall. 

It  is  very  singular,  that  although  I  expressly  stated  that  story 
to  have  been  told  to  me,  and  described  the  very  person  who 
told  it,  still  it  has  been  received  as  an  adventure  that  happened 
to  myself.  Now,  I  protest  I  never  met  with  any  adventure  of 
the  kind.  I  should  not  have  grieved  at  this,  had  it  not  been 
intimated  by  the  author  of  Waverley,  in  an  introduction  to  his 
romance  of  Peveril  of  the  Peak,  that  he  was  himself  the  Stout 
Gentleman  alluded  to.  I  have  ever  since  been  importuned  by 
letters  and  questions  from  gentlemen,  and  particularly  from 
ladies  without  number,  touching  what  I  had  seen  of  the  great 
unknown. 

Now,  all  this  is  extremely  tantalizing.  It  is  like  being  con 
gratulated  on  the  high  prize  when  one  has  drawn  a  blank ;  for 
I  have  just  as  great  a  desire  as  any  one  of  the  public  to  pene 
trate  the  mystery  of  that  very  singular  personage,  whose  voice 
fills  every  corner  of  the  world,  without  any  one  being  able  to 
tell  from  whence  it  comes.  He  who  keeps  up  such  a  wonder 
ful  and  whimsical  incognito:  whom  nobody  knows,  and  yet 
whom  every  body  tliinks  he  can  swear  to. 


6  TALKS  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

My  friend*  the  nervous  gentleman,  also,  who  is  a  man  of 
very  shy,  retired  habits, :  Complains  that  he  has  been  exces 
sively  annoyed  .in  cqnscquence  of 'its  getting  about  in  his  neigh 
borhood  'that  hd:ik  tb>  £ priuhate;  personage.  Insomuch,  that 
he  has  become  a  character  of  considerable  notoriety  in  two  or 
three  country  towns ;  and  has  been  repeatedly  teased  to  exhibit 
himself  at  blue-stocking  parties,  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
of  being  ' '  the  gentleman  who  has  had  a  glimpse  of  the  author 
of  Waverley." 

Indeed,  the  poor  man  has  grown  ten  times  as  nervous  as 
ever,  since  he  has  discovered,  on  such  good  authority,  who  the 
stout  gentleman  was;  and  will  never  forgive  himself  for  not 
having  made  a  more  resolute  effort  to  get  a  full  sight  of  him. 
He  has  anxiously  endeavored  to  call  up  a  recollection  of  what 
he  saw  of  that  portly  personage;  and  has  ever  since  kept  a 
curious  eye  on  all  gentlemen  of  more  than  ordinary  dimen 
sions,  whom  he  has  seen  getting  into  stage  coaches.  All  in 
vain !  The  features  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  seem  common 
to  the  whole  race  of  stout  gentlemen ;  and  the  great  unknown 
remains  as  great  an  unknown  as  ever.] 


A  HUNTING  DINNER. 

I  WAS  once  at  a  hunting  dinner,  given  by  a  worthy  fox 
hunting  old  Baronet,  who  kept  Bachelor's  Hall  in  jovial  style, 
in  an  ancient  rook-haunted  family  mansion,  in  one  of  the  mid 
dle  counties.  He  had  been  a  devoted  admirer  of  the  fair  sex  in 
his  young  days ;  but  having  travelled  much,  studied  the  sex  in 
various  countries  with  distinguished  success,  and  returned 
home  profoundly  instructed,  as  he  supposed,  in  the  ways  of 
woman,  and  a  perfect  master  of  the  art  of  pleasing,  he  had  the 
mortification  of  being  jilted  by  a  little  boarding  school  girl, 
who  was  scarcely  versed  in  the  accidence  of  love. 

The  Baronet  was  completely  overcome  by  such  an  incredible 
defeat;  retired  from  the  world  in  disgust,  put  himself  under 
the  government  of  his  housekeeper,  and  took  to  fox-hunting 
like  a  perfect  Jehu.  Whatever  poets  may  say  to  the  contrary, 
a  man  will  grow  out  of  love  as  he  grows  old ;  and  a  pack  of  fox 
hounds  may  chase  out  of  his  heart  even  the  memory  of  a 


A  HUNTING  DINNER.  7 

boarding  school  goddess.  The  Baronet  was  when  I  saw  him  aa 
merry  and  mellow  an  old  bachelor  as  ever  followed  a  hound-, 
and  the  love  he  had  once  felt  for  one  woman  had  spread  itself 
over  the  whole  sex ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  pretty  face  in  the 
whole  country  round,  but  came  in  for  a  share. 

The  dinner  was  prolonged  till  a  late  hour ;  for  our  host  hav 
ing  no  ladies  in  his  household  to  summon  us  to  the  drawing- 
room,  the  bottle  maintained  its  true  bachelor  sway,  unrivalled 
by  its  potent  enemy  the  tea-kettle.  The  old  hall  in  which  we 
dined  echoed  to  bursts  of  robustious  fox-hunting  merriment, 
that  made  the  ancient  antlers  shake  on  the  walls.  By  degrees, 
however,  the  wine  and  wassail  of  mine  host  began  to  operate 
upon  bodies  already  a  little  jaded  by  the  chase.  The  choice 
spirits  that  flashed  up  at  the  beginning  of  the  dinner,  sparkled 
for  a  time,  then  gradually  went  out  one  after  another,  or  only 
emitted  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  from  the  socket.  Some  of 
the  briskest  talkers,  who  had  given  tongue  so  bravely  at  the 
first  burst,  fell  fast  asleep ;  and  none  kept  on  their  way  but 
certain  of  those  long-winded  prosers,  who,  like  short-legged 
hounds,  worry  on  unnoticed  at  the  bottom  of  conversation, 
but  are  sure  to  be  in  at  the  death.  Even  these  at  length  sub 
sided  into  silence ;  and  scarcely  any  thing  was  heard  but  the 
nasal  communications  of  two  or  three  veteran  masticators, 
who,  having  been  silent  while  awake,  were  indemnifying  the 
company  in  their  sleep. 

At  length  the  announcement  of  tea  and  coffee  in  the  cedar 
parlor  roused  all  hands  from  this  temporary  torpor.  Every 
one  awoke  marvellously  renovated,  and  while  sipping  the  re 
freshing  beverage  out  of  the  Baronet's  old-fashioned  hereditary 
china,  began  to  think  of  departing  for  their  several  homes. 
But  here  a  sudden  difficulty  arose.  While  we  had  been  pro 
longing  our  repast,  a  heavy  winter  storm  had  set  in,  with 
snow,  rain,  and  sleet,  driven  by  such  bitter  blasts  of  wind, 
that  they  threatened  to  penetrate  to  the  very  bone. 

"It's  all  in  vain,"  said  our  hospitable  host,  "to  think  of 
putting  one's  head  out  of  doors  in  such  weather.  So,  gentle 
men,  I  hold  you  my  guests  for  this  night  at  least,  and  will 
have  your  quarters  prepared  accordingly. " 

The  unruly  weather,  which  became  more  and  more  tempes- 
tuous,  rendered  the  hospitable  suggestion  unanswerable.  The 
only  question  was,  whether  such  an  unexpected  accession  of 
company,  to  an  already  crowded  house,  would  not  put  the 
housekeeper  to  her  trumps  to  accommodate  them. 


8  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

"Pshaw,"  cried  mine  host,  "did  you  ever  know  of  a  Bach 
elor's  Hall  that  was  not  elastic,  and  able  to  accommodate  twice 
as  many  as  it  could  hold?"  So  out  of  a  good-humored  pique 
the  housekeeper  was  summoned  to  consultation  before  us  all. 
The  old  lady  appeared,  in  her  gala  suit  of  faded  brocade,  which 
rustled  with  flurry  and  agitation,  for  in  spite  of  mine  host's 
bravado,  she  was  a  little  perplexed.  But  in  a  bachelor's  house, 
and  with  bachelor  guests,  these  matters  are  readily  managed. 
There  is  no  lady  of  the  house  to  stand  upon  squeamish  points 
about  lodging  guests  in  odd  holes  and  corners,  and  exposing 
the  shabby  parts  of  the  establishment.  A  bachelor's  house 
keeper  is  used  to  shifts  and  emergencies.  After  much  worry 
ing  to  and  fro,  and  divers  consultations  about  the  red  room, 
and  the  blue  room,  and  the  chintz  room,  and  the  damask  room, 
and  the  little  room  with  the  bow  window,  the  matter  was 
finally  arranged. 

When  all  this  was  done,  we  were  once  more  summoned  to 
the  standing  rural  amusement  of  eating.  The  time  that  had 
been  consumed  in  dozing  after  dinner,  and  in  the  refreshment 
and  consultation  of  the  cedar  parlor,  was  sufficient,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  rosy-faced  butler,  to  engender  a  reasonable 
appetite  for  supper.  A  slight  repast  had  therefore  been  tricked 
up  from  the  residue  of  dinner,  consisting  of  cold  sirloin  of  beef ; 
hashed  venison;  a  devilled  leg  of  a  turkey  or  so,  and  a  few 
other  of  those  light  articles  taken  by  country  gentlemen  to 
ensure  sound  sleep  and  heavy  snoring. 

The  nap  after  dinner  had  brightened  up  every  one's  wit ;  and 
a  great  deal  of  excellent  humor  was  expended  upon  the  per 
plexities  of  mine  host  and  his  housekeeper,  by  certain  married 
gentlemen  of  the  company,  who  considered  themselves  privil 
eged  in  joking  with  a  bachelor's  establishment.  From  this  the 
banter  turned  as  to  what  quarters  each  would  find,  on  being 
thus  suddenly  billeted  in  so  antiquated  a  mansion. 

"By  my  soul,"  said  an  Irish  captain  of  dragoons,  one  of  the 
most  merry  and  boisterous  of  the  party — "by  my  soul,  but  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  some  of  those  good-looking  gentle 
folks  that  hang  along  the  walls,  should  walk  about  the  rooms 
of  this  stormy  night;  or  if  I  should  find  the  ghost  of  one  of 
these  long-waisted  ladies  turning  into  my  bed  in  mistake  for 
her  grave  in  the  church-yard." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts,  then?"  said  a  thin,  hatchet-faced 
gentleman,  with  projecting  eyes  like  a  lobster. 

I  had  remarked  this  last_  personage  throughout  dinner-time 


TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER.  9 

for  one  of  those  incessant  questioners,  who  seem  to  have  a 
craving,  unhealthy  appetite  in  conversation.  He  never  seemed 
satisfied  with  the  whole  of  a  story ;  never  laughed  when  others 
laughed ;  but  always  put  the  joke  to  the  question.  He  could 
never  enjoy  the  kernel  of  the  nut,  but  pestered  himself  to  get 
more  out  of  the  shell. 

"Do  you  believe  in  ghosts,  then?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentle 
man. 

"Faith,  but  I  do,"  replied  the  jovial  Irishman;  "I  was 
brought  up  in  the  fear  and  belief  of  them;  we  had  a  Benshee 
in  our  own  family,  honey. " 

"A  Benshee — and  what's  that?"  cried  the  questioner. 

"  Why  an  old  lady  ghost  that  tends  upon  your  real  Milesian 
families,  and  wails  at  their  window  to  let  them  know  when 
some  of  them  are  to  die." 

"  A  mighty  pleasant  piece  of  information,"  cried  an  elderly 
gentleman,  with  a  knowing  look  and  a  flexible  nose,  to  which 
he  could  give  a  whimsical  twist  when  he  wished  to  be  waggish. 

' '  By  my  soul,  but  I'd  have  you  know  it's  a  piece  of  distinc 
tion,  to  be  waited  upon  by  a  Benshee.  It's  a  proof  that  one  has 
pure  blood  in  one's  veins.  But,  egad,  now  we're  talking  of 
ghosts,  there  never  was  a  house  or  a  night  better  fitted  than 
the  present  for  a  ghost  adventure.  Faith,  Sir  John,  haven't 
you  such  a  thing  as  a  haunted  chamber  to  put  a  guest  in?" 

' '  Perhaps, "  said  the  Baronet,  smiling,  ' '  I  might  accommodate 
you  even  on  that  point. " 

"Oh,  I  should  hlce  it  of  all  things,  my  jewel.  Some  dark 
oaken  room,  with  ugly  wo-begone  portraits  that  stare  dismally 
at  one,  and  about  which  the  housekeeper  has  a  power  of  de 
lightful  stories  of  love  and  murder.  And  then  a  dim  lamp,  a 
table  with  a  rusty  sword  across  it,  and  a  spectre  all  in  white  to 
draw  aside  one's  curtains  at  midnight — " 

"In  truth,"  said  an  old  gentleman  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
"  you  put  me  in  mind  of  an  anecdote — " 

' '  Oh,  a  ghost  story !  a  ghost  story  1"  was  vociferated  round 
the  board,  every  one  edging  his  chair  a  little  nearer. 

The  attention  of  the  whole  company  was  now  turned  upon 
the  speaker.  He  was  an  old  gentleman,  one  side  of  whose  face 
was  no  match  for  the  other.  The  eyelid  drooped  and  hung 
down  like  an  unhinged  window  shutter.  Indeed,  the  whole 
side  of  his  head  was  dilapidated,  and  seemed  like  the  wing  of  a 
house  shut  up  and  haunted.  I'll  warrant  that  side  was  well 
stuffed  with  ghost  stories. 


10  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

There  was  a  universal  demand  for  the  tale. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "it's  a  mere  anecdote — and  a 
very  commonplace  one ;  but  such  as  it  is  you  shall  have  it.  It 
is  a  story  that  I  once  heard  my  uncle  tell  when  I  was  a  boy. 
But  whether  as  having  happened  to  himself  or  to  another,  I 
cannot  recollect.  But  no  matter,  it's  very  likely  it  happened  to 
himself,  for  he  was  a  man  very  apt  to  meet  with  strange 
adventures.  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  others  much  more  singu 
lar.  At  any  rate,  we  will  suppose  it  happened  to  himself." 

•'What  kind  of  man  was  your  uncle?"  said  the  questioning 
gentleman. 

"Why,  he  was  rather  a  dry,  shrewd  kind  of  body;  a  great 
traveller,  and  fond  of  telling  his  adventures." 

"  Pray,  how  old  might  he  have  been  when  this  happened?" 

"When  what  happened?"  cried  the  gentleman  with  the  flexi 
ble  nose,  impatiently — "  Egad,  you  have  not  given  any  thing  a 
chance  to  happen — come,  never  mind  our  uncle's  age;  let  us 
have  his  adventures." 

The  inquisitive  gentleman  being  for  the  moment  silenced,  the 
old  gentleman  with  the  haunted  head  proceeded. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE. 

MANY  years  since,  a  long  time  before  the  French  revolution, 
my  uncle  had  passed  several  months  at  Paris.  The  English 
and  French  were  on  better  terms,  in  those  days,  than  at  pres 
ent,  and  mingled  cordially  together  in  society.  The  English 
went  abroad  to  spend  money  then,  and  the  French  were  always 
ready  to  help  them :  they  go  abroad  to  save  money  at  present, 
and  that  they  can  do  without  French  assistance.  Perhaps  the 
travelling  English  were  fewer  and  choicer  then,  than  at  present, 
when  the  whole  nation  has  broke  loose,  and  inundated  the  con 
tinent.  At  any  rate,  they  circulated  more  readily  and  currently 
in  foreign  society,  and  my  uncle,  during  his  residence  in  Paris, 
made  many  very  intimate  acquaintances  among  the  French 
noblesse. 

Some  time  afterwards,  he  was  making  a  journey  in  the 
winter-tune,  in  that  part  of  Normandy  called  the  Pays  de  Caux, 
when,  as  evening  was  closing  in,  he  perceived  the  turrets  of  an 
ancient  chateau  rising  out  of  the  trees  of  its  walled  park,  each 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY   UNCLE.  \\ 

turret  with  its  high  conical  roof  of  gray  slate,  like  a  candle 
with  an  extinguisher  on  it. 

"  To  whom  does  that  chateau  belong,  friend?"  cried  my  uncle 
to  a  meager,  but  fiery  postillion,  who,  with  tremendous  jack 
boots  and  cocked  hat,  was  floundering  on  before  him. 

"To  Monseigneur  the  Marquis  de ,"  said  the  postillion, 

touching  his  hat,  partly  out  of  respect  to  my  uncle,  and  partly 
out  of  reverence  to  the  noble  name  pronounced.  My  uncle 
recollected  the  Marquis  for  a  particular  friend  in  Paris,  who 
had  often  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him  at  his  paternal  chateau. 
My  uncle  was  an  old  traveller,  one  that  knew  how  to  turn 
things  to  account.  He  revolved  for  a  few  moments  in  his  mind 
how  agreeable  it  would  be  to  his  friend  the  Marquis  to  be  sur 
prised  in  this  sociable  way  by  a  pop  visit ;  and  how  much  more 
agreeable  to  himself  to  get  into  snug  quarters  in  a  chateau,  and 
have  a  relish  of  the  Marquis's  well-known  kitchen,  and  a  smack 
of  his  superior  champagne  and  burgundy ;  rather  than  take  up 
with  the  miserable  lodgment,  and  miserable  fare  of  a  country 
inn.  In  a  few  minutes,  therefore,  the  meager  postillion  was 
cracking  his  whip  like  a  very  devil,  or  like  a  true  Frenchman, 
up  the  long  straight  avenue  that  led  to  the  chateau. 

You  have  no  doubt  all  seen  French  chateaus,  as  every  body 
travels  in  France  nowadays.  This  was  one  of  the  oldest ;  stand 
ing  naked  and  alone,  in  the  midst  of  a  desert  of  gravel  walks  and 
cold  stone  terraces;  with  a  cold-looking  formal  garden,  cut 
into  angles  and  rhomboids;  and  a  cold  leafless  park,  divided 
geometrically  by  straight  alleys;  and  two  or  three  noseless, 
cold-looking  statues  without  any  clothing;  and  fountains 
spouting  cold  water  enough  to  make  one's  teeth  chatter.  At 
least,  such  was  the  feeling  they  imparted  on  the  wintry  day 
of  my  uncle's  visit ;  though,  in  hot  summer  weather,  I'll  warrant 
there  was  glare  enough  to  scorch  one's  eyes  out. 

The  smacking  of  the  postillion's  whip,  which  grew  more  and 
more  intense  the  nearer  they  approached,  frightened  a  flight 
of  pigeons  out  of  the  dove-cote,  and  rooks  out  of  the  roofs ;  and 
finally  a  crew  of  servants  out  of  the  chateau,  with  the  Marquis 
at  their  head.  He  was  enchanted  to  see  my  uncle;  for  his 
chateau,  like  the  house  of  our  worthy  host,  had  not  many  more 
guests  at  the  time  than  it  could  accommodate.  So  he  kissed 
my  uncle  on  each  cheek,  after  the  French  fashion,  and  ushered 
him  into  the  castle. 

The  Marquis  did  the  honors  of  his  house  with  the  urbanity  of 
bis  country.  In  fact,  he  was  proud  of  his  old  family  chateau; 


12  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

for  part  of  it  was  extremely  old.  There  was  a  tower  and  chapel 
that  had  been  built  almost  before  the  memory  of  man ;  but  the 
rest  was  more  modern ;  the  castle  having  been  nearly  demolished 
during  the  wars  of  the  League.  The  Marquis  dwelt  upon  this 
event  with  great  satisfaction,  and  seemed  really  to  entertain  a 
grateful  feeling  towards  Henry  IV.,  for  having  thought  his 
paternal  mansion  worth  battering  down.  He  had  many  stories 
to  tell  of  the  prowess  of  his  ancestors,  and  several  skull-caps, 
helmets,  and  cross-bows  to  show ;  and  divers  huge  boots  and 
buff  jerkins,  that  had  been  worn  by  the  Leaguers.  Above  all, 
there  was  a  two-handled  sword,  which  he  could  hardly  wield ; 
but  which  he  displayed  as  a  proof  that  there  had  been  giants  in 
his  family. 

In  truth,  he  was  but  a  small  descendant  from  such  great 
warriors.  When  you  looked  at  their  bluff  visages  and  brawny 
limbs,  as  depicted  in  their  portraits,  and  then  at  the  little 
Marquis,  with  his  spindle  shanks ;  his  sallow  lanthern  visage, 
flanked  with  a  pair  of  powdered  ear-locks,  or  ailes  de  pigeon, 
that  seemed  ready  to  fly  away  with  it ;  you  would  hardly  believe 
him  to  be  of  the  same  race.  But  when  you  looked  at  the  eyes 
that  sparkled  out  like  a  beetle's  from  each  side  of  his  hooked 
nose,  you  saw  at  once  that  he  inherited  all  the  fiery  spirit  of  his 
forefathers.  In  fact,  a  Frenchman's  spirit  never  exhales,  how 
ever  his  body  may  dwindle.  It  rather  rarefies,  and  grows  more 
inflammable,  as  the  earthly  particles  diminish ;  and  I  have  seen 
valor  enough  in  a  little  fiery-hearted  French  dwarf,  to  have 
furnished  out  a  tolerable  giant. 

When  once  the  Marquis,  as  he  was  wont,  put  on  one  of  the 
old  helmets  that  were  stuck  up  in  his  hall ;  though  his  head  no 
more  filled  it  than  a  dry  pea  its  pease  cod ;  yet  his  eyes  sparkled 
from  the  bottom  of  the  iron  cavern  with  the  brilliancy  of  car 
buncles,  and  when  he  poised  the  ponderous  two-handled  sword 
of  his  ancestors,  you  would  have  thought  you  saw  the  doughty 
little  David  wielding  the  sword  of  Goliah,  which  was  unto  birn 
like  a  weaver's  beam. 

However,  gentlemen,  I  am  dwelling  too  long  on  this  descrip 
tion  of  the  Marquis  and  his  chateau ;  but  you  must  excuse  me ; 
he  was  an  old  friend  of  my  uncle's,  and  whenever  my  uncle 
told  the  story,  he  was  always  fond  of  talking  a  great  deal  about 
liis  host. — Poor  little  Marquis!  He  was  one  of  that  handful  of 
gallant  courtiers,  who  made  such  a  devoted,  but  hopeless  stand 
in  the  cause  of  their  sovereign,  in  the  chateau  of  the  Tuilleries, 
against  the  irruption  of  the  mob,  on  the  sad  tenth  of  August 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE.  13 

He  displayed  the  valor  of  a  preux  French  chevalier  to  the  last ; 
flourished  feebly  his  little  court  sword  with  a  sa-sa !  in  face  of 
a  whole  legion  of  sans-culottes ;  but  was  pinned  to  the  wall  like  a 
butterfly,  by  the  pike  of  a  poissarde,  and  his  heroic  soul  was 
borne  up  to  heaven  on  his  ailes  de  pigeon. 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story ;  to  the  point 
then : — When  the  hour  arrived  for  retiring  for  the  night,  my 
uncle  was  shown  to  his  room,  in  a  venerable  old  tower.  It  was 
the  oldest  part  of  the  chateau,  and  had  in  ancient  times  been 
the  Donjon  or  stronghold;  of  course  the  chamber  was  none  of 
the  best.  The  Marquis  had  put  him  there,  however,  because  he 
knew  him  to  be  a  traveller  of  taste,  and  fond  of  antiquities ; 
and  also  because  the  better  apartments  were  already  occupied. 
Indeed,  he  perfectly  reconciled  my  uncle  to  his  quarters  by 
mentioning  the  great  personages  who  had  once  inhabited  them, 
all  of  whom  were  in  some  way  or  other  connected  with  the 
family.  If  you  would  take  his  word  for  it,  John  Baliol,  or,  as 
he  called  him,  Jean  de  Bailleul,  had  died  of  chagrin  in  this 
very  chamber  on  hearing  of  the  success  of  his  rival,  Robert  the 
Bruce,  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn ;  and  when  he  added  that 
the  Duke  de  Guise  had  slept  in  it  during  the  wars  of  the  League, 
my  uncle  was  fain  to  felicitate  himself  upon  being  honored 
with  such  distinguished  quarters. 

The  night  was  shrewd  and  windy,  and  the  chamber  none  of 
the  warmest.  An  old,  long-faced,  long-bodied  servant  in  quaint 
livery,  who  attended  upon  my  uncle,  threw  down  an  armful  of 
wood  beside  the  fire-place,  gave  a  queer  look  about  the  room, 
and  then  wished  him  bon  repos,  with  a  grimace  and  a  shrug 
that  would  have  been  suspicious  from  any  other  than  an  old 
French  servant.  The  chamber  had  indeed  a  wild,  crazy  look, 
enough  to  strike  any  one  who  had  read  romances  with  appre 
hension  and  foreboding.  The  windows  were  high  arid  narrow, 
and  had  once  been  loop-holes,  but  had  been  rudely  enlarged,  as 
well  as  the  extreme  thickness  of  the  walls  would  permit ;  and 
the  ill-fitted  casements  rattled  to  every  breeze.  You  would 
have  thought,  on  a  windy  night,  some  of  the  old  Leaguers  were 
tramping  and  clanking  about  the  apartment  in  their  huge  boots 
and  rattling  spurs.  A  door  which  stood  ajar,  and  like  a  true 
French  door  would  stand  ajar,  in  spite  of  every  reason  and 
effort  to  the  contrary,  opened  upon  a  long,  dark  corridor,  that 
led  the  Lord  knows  whither,  and  seemed  just  made  for  ghosts 
to  air  themselves  in,  when  they  turned  out  of  their  graves  at 
midnight.  The  wind  would^spring  up  into  a  hoarse  murmur 


14  TALES  OF  A   TRA  TELLER. 

through  this  passage,  and  creak  the  door  to  and  fro,  as  if  some 
dubious  ghost  were  balancing  in  its  mind  whether  to  come  in  or 
not.  In  a  word,  it  was  precisely  the  kind  of  comfortless  apart 
ment  that  a  ghost,  if  ghost  there  were  in  the  chateau,  would 
single  out  for  its  favorite  lounge. 

My  uncle,  however,  though  a  man  accustomed  to  meet  with 
strange  adventures,  apprehended  none  at  the  time.  He  made 
several  attempts  to  shut  the  door,  but  in  vain.  Not  that  he 
apprehended  any  thing,  for  he  was  too  old  a  traveller  to  be 
daunted  by  a  wild-looking  apartment ;  but  the  night,  as  I  have 
said,  was  cold  and  gusty,  something  like  the  present,  and  the 
wind  howled  about  the  old  turret,  pretty  much  as  it  does  round 
this  old  mansion  at  this  moment ;  and  the  breeze  from  the  long 
dark  corridor  came  in  as  damp  and  chilly  as  if  from  a  dungeon. 
My  uncle,  therefore,  since  he  could  not  close  the  door,  threw  a 
quantity  of  wood  on  the  fire,  which  soon  sent  up  a  flame  in  the 
great  wide-mouthed  chimney  that  illumined  the  whole  chamber, 
and  made  the  shadow  of  the  tongs  on  the  opposite  wall,  look 
like  a  long-legged  giant.  My  uncle  now  clambered  on  top  of 
the  half  score  of  mattresses  which  form  a  French  bed,  and 
which  stood  in  a  deep  recess ;  then  tucking  himself  snugly  in, 
and  burying  himself  up  to  the  chin  in  the  bed-clothes,  he  lay 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  listening  to  the  wind,  and  chuckling  to 
think  how  knowingly  he  had  come  over  his  friend  the  Marquis 
for  a  night's  lodgings :  and  so  he  fell  asleep. 

He  had  not  taken  above  half  of  his  first  nap,  when  he  was  awak 
ened  by  the  clock  of  the  chateau,  in  the  turret  over  his  chamber, 
which  struck  midnight.  It  was  just  such  an  old  clock  as  ghosts 
are  fond  of.  It  had  a  deep,  dismal  tone,  and  struck  so  slowly 
and  tediously  that  my  uncle  thought  it  would  never  have  done. 
He  counted  and  counted  till  he  was  confident  he  counted  thir 
teen,  and  then  it  stopped. 

The  fire  had  burnt  low,  and  the  blaze  of  the  last  faggot  was 
almost  expiring,  burning  in  small  blue  flames,  which  now  and 
then  lengthened  up  into  little  white  gleams.  My  uncle  lay  with 
his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  nightcap  drawn  almost  down  to  his 
nose.  His  fancy  was  already  wandering,  and  began  to  mingle 
up  the  present  scene  with  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  the  French 
opera,  the  Coliseum  at  Rome,  Dolly's  chop-house  in  London, 
and  all  the  farrago  of  noted  places  with  which  the  brain  of  a 
traveller  is  crammed — in  a  word,  he  was  just  falling  asleep. 

Suddenly  he  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  foot-steps  that 
appeared  to  be  slowly  pacing  along  the  corridor.  My  uncle,  as 


THE  ADVENTURE  Of  MY  UNCLE.  15 

I  have  often  heard  him  say  himself,  was  a  man  not  easily 
frightened ;  so  he  lay  quiet,  supposing  that  this  might  be  some 
other  guest ;  or  some  servant  on  his  way  to  bed.  The  footsteps, 
however,  approached  the  door ;  the  door  gently  opened ;  wheth 
er  of  its  own  accord,  or  whether  pushed  open,  my  uncle  could 
not  distinguish: — a  figure  all  hi  white  glided  in.  It  was  a 
female,  tall  and  stately  in  person,  and  of  a  most  commanding 
air.  Her  dress  was  of  an  ancient  fashion,  ample  in  volume  and 
sweeping  the  floor.  She  walked  up  to  the  fire-place  without 
regarding  my  uncle ;  who  raised  his  nightcap  with  one  hand, 
and  stared  earnestly  at  her.  She  remained  for  some  time  stand 
ing  by  the  fire,  which  flashing  up  at  intervals  cast  blue  and 
white  gleams  of  light  that  enabled  my  uncle  to  remark  her 
appearance  minutely. 

Her  face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  perhaps  rendered  still  more 
so  by  the  blueish  light  of  the  fire.  It  possessed  beauty,  but  its 
beauty  was  saddened  by  care  and  anxiety.  There  was  the  look 
of  one  accustomed  to  trouble,  but  of  one  whom  trouble  could 
not  cast  down  nor  subdue ;  for  there  was  still  the  predominat 
ing  air  of  proud,  unconquerable  resolution.  Such,  at  least,  was 
the  opinion  formed  by  my  uncle,  and  he  considered  himself  a 
great  physiognomist. 

The  figure  remained,  as  I  said,  for  some  time  by  the  fire,  put 
ting  out  first  one  hand,  then  the  other,  then  each  foot,  alter 
nately,  as  if  warming  itself ;  for  your  ghosts,  if  ghost  it  really 
was,  are  apt  to  be  cold.  My  uncle  furthermore  remarked  that 
it  wore  high-heeled  shoes,  after  an  ancient  fashion,  with  paste 
or  diamond  buckles,  that  sparkled  as  though  they  were  alive. 
At  length  the  figure  turned  gently  round,  casting  a  glassy  look 
about  the  apartment,  which,  as  it  passed  over  my  uncle,  made 
his  blood  run  cold,  and  chilled  the  very  marrow  in  his  bones. 
It  then  stretched  its  arms  toward  heaven,  clasped  its  hands, 
and  wringing  them  in  a  supplicating  manner,  glided  slowly  out 
of  the  room. 

My  uncle  lay  for  some  time  meditating  on  this  visitation,  for 
(as  he  remarked  when  he  told  me  the  story)  though  a  man  of 
firmness,  he  was  also  a  man  of  reflection,  and  did  not  reject  a 
thing  because  it  was  out  of  the  regular  course  of  events.  How 
ever,  being,  as  I  have  before  said,  a  great  traveller,  and  accus 
tomed  to  strange  adventures,  he  drew  his  nightcap  resolutely 
over  his  eyes,  turned  his  back  to  the  door,  hoisted  the  bed 
clothes  high  over  his  shoulders,  and  gradually  fell  asleep. 

How  long  he  slept  he  could  not  say,  when  he  was  awakened 


IQ  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

by  the  voice  of  some  one  at  his  bed-side.  He  turned  round  and 
beheld  the  old  French  servant,  with  his  ear-locks  in  tight 
buckles  on  each  side  of  a  long,  lanthorn  face,  on  which  habit 
had  deeply  wrinkled  an  everlasting  smile.  He  made  a  thou 
sand  grimaces  and  asked  a  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing 
Monsieur,  but  the  morning  was  considerably  advanced.  While 
my  uncle  was  dressing,  he  called  vaguely  to  mind  the  visitor  of 
the  preceding  night.  He  asked  the  ancient  domestic  what  lady 
was  in  the  habit  of  rambling  about  this  part  of  the  chateau  at 
night.  The  old  valet  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  high  as  his 
head,  laid  one  hand  on  his  bosom,  threw  open  the  other  with 
every  finger  extended ;  made  a  most  whimsical  grimace,  which 
he  meant  to  be  complimentary : 

"It  was  not  for  him  to  know  any  thing  of  les  braves  fortune* 
of  Monsieur." 

My  uncle  saw  there  was  nothing  satisfactory  to  be  learnt  in 
this  quarter.  After  breakfast  he  was  walking  with  the  Marquis 
through  the  modern  apartments  of  the  chateau;  sliding  over 
the  well-waxed  floors  of  silken  saloons,  amidst  furniture  rich  in 
gilding  and  brocade ;  until  they  came  to  a  long  picture  gallery, 
containing  many  portraits,  some  in  oil  and  some  in  chalks. 

Here  was  an  ample  field  for  the  eloquence  of  his  host,  who 
had  all  the  family  pride  of  a  nobleman  of  the  ancien  regime. 
There  was  not  a  grand  name  in  Normandy,  and  hardly  one  in 
France,  that  was  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  connected  with  his 
house.  My  uncle  stood  listening  with  inward  impatience,  rest 
ing  sometimes  on  one  leg,  sometimes  on  the  other,  as  the  little 
Marquis  descanted,  with  his  usual  fire  and  vivacity,  on  the 
achievements  of  his  ancestors,  whose  portraits  hung  along  the 
wall ;  from  the  martial  deeds  of  the  stern  warriors  in  steel,  to 
the  gallantries  and  intrigues  of  the  blue-eyed  gentlemen,  with 
fair  smiling  faces,  powdered  ear-locks,  laced  ruffles,  and  pink 
and  blue  silk  coats  and  breeches ;  not  forgetting  the  conquests 
of  the  lovely  shepherdesses,  with  hoop  petticoats  and  waists  no 
thicker  than  an  hour  glass,  who  appeared  ruling  over  their 
sheep  and  their  swains  with  dainty  crooks  decorated  with  flut 
tering  ribbands. 

In  the  midst  of  his  friend's  discourse  my  uncle's  eyes  rested 
on  a  full-length  portrait,  which  struck  him  as  being  the  very 
counterpart  of  his  visitor  of  the  preceding  night. 

"  Methinks,"  said  he,  pointing  to  it,  "I  have  seen  the  original 
of  this  portrait." 

" Pardonnez  mot,"  replied  the  Marquis  politely,  "that  can 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE.  17 

hardly  be,  as  the  lady  has  been  dead  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  That  was  the  beautiful  Duchess  de  Longueville,  who 
figured  during  the  minority  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth." 

"And  was  there  any  thing  remarkable  in  her  history." 

Never  was  question  more  unlucky.  The  little  Marquis  im 
mediately  threw  himself  into  the  attitude  of  a  man  about  to 
tell  a  long  story.  In  fact,  my  uncle  had  pulled  upon  himself 
the  whole  history  of  the  civil  war  of  the  Fronde,  in  which  the 
beautiful  Duchess  had  played  so  distinguished  a  part.  Turenne, 
Coligni,  Mazarin,  were  called  up  from  their  graves  to  grace  his 
narration ;  nor  were  the  affairs  of  the  Barricadoes,  nor  the  chiv 
alry  of  the  Pertcocheres  forgotten.  My  uncle  began  to  wish 
himself  a  thousand  leagues  off  from  the  Marquis  and  his  merci 
less  memory,  when  suddenly  the  little  man's  recollections  took 
a  more  interesting  turn.  He  was  relating  the  imprisonment  of 
the  Duke  de  Longueville,  with  the  Princes  Conde  and  Conti, 
in  the  chateau  of  Vincennes,  and  the  ineffectual  efforts  of  the 
Duchess  to  rouse  the  sturdy  Normans  to  their  rescue.  He  had 
come  to  that  part  where  she  was  invested  by  the  royal  forces 
in  the  chateau  of  Dieppe,  and  in  imminent  danger  of  f  ailing  into 
their  hands. 

"The  spirit  of  the  Duchess,"  proceeded  the  Marquis,  "rose 
with  her  trials.  It  was  astonishing  to  see  so  delicate  and  beau 
tiful  a  being  buffet  so  resolutely  with  hardships.  She  deter 
mined  on  a  desperate  means  of  escape.  One  dark  unruly  night, 
she  issued  secretly  out  of  a  small  postern  gate  of  the  castle, 
which  the  enemy  had  neglected  to  guard.  She  was  followed  by 
her  female  attendants,  a  few  domestics,  and  some  gallant  cava 
liers  who  still  remained  faithful  to  her  fortunes.  Her  object 
was  to  gain  a  small  port  about  two  leagues  distant,  where  she 
had  privately  provided  a  vessel  for  her  escape  in  case  of  emer 
gency. 

The  little  band  of  fugitives  were  obliged  to  perform  the  dis- 
.tance  on  foot.  When  they  arrived  at  the  port  the  wind  was 
high  and  stormy,  the  tide  contrary,  the  vessel  anchored  far  off 
in  the  road,  and  no  means  of  getting  on  board,  but  by  a  fishing 
shallop  that  lay  tossing  like  a  cockle  shell  on  the  edge  of  the 
surf.  The  Duchess  determined  to  risk  the  attempt.  The  sea 
men  endeavored  to  dissuade  her,  but  the  imminence  of  her 
danger  on  shore,  and  the  magnanimity  ot  her  spirit  urged  her 
on.  She  had  to  be  borne  to  the  shallop  in  the  arms  of  a  mari 
ner.  Such  was  the  violence  of  the  wind  and  waves,  that  he 


18  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

faltered,  lost  his  foothold,  and  let  his  precious  burden  fall  into 
the  sea. 

"The  Duchess  was  nearly  drowned;  but  partly  through  her 
C'yn  struggles,  partly  by  the  exertions  of  the  seamen,  she  got 
to  land.     As  soon  as  she  had  a  little  recovered  strength,  she 
insisted  on  renewing  the  attempt.     The  storm,  however,  had 
by  this  time  become  so  violent  as  to  set  all  efforts  at  defiance* 
To  delay,  was  to  be  discovered  and  taken  prisoner.    As  the  only 
resource  left,  she  procured  horses;  mounted  with  her  female 
attendants  en  croupe  behind  the  gallant  gentlemen  who  accom 
panied  her;  and  scoured  the  country  to  seek  some  temporary 
asylum. 

"  While  the  Duchess,"  continued  the  Marquis,  laying  his  fore* 
anger  on  my  uncle's  breast  to  arouse  his  flagging  attention, 
"while  the  Duchess,  poor  lady,  was  wandering  amid  the  tem 
pest  in  this  disconsolate  manner,  she  arrived  at  this  chateau. 
Her  approach  caused  some  uneasiness ;  for  the  clattering  of  a 
troop  of  horse,  at  dead  of  night,  up  the  avenue  of  a  lonely 
chateau,  in  those  unsettled  times,  and  in  a  troubled  part  of  the 
country,  was  enough  to  occasion  alarm. 

"A  tall,  broad-shouldered  chasseur,  armed  to  the  teeth,  gal 
loped  ahead,  and  announced  the  name  of  the  visitor.  All  un 
easiness  was  dispelled.  The  household  turned  out  with  flam 
beaux  to  receive  her,  and  never  did  torches  gleam  on  a  more 
•weather-beaten,  travel-stained  band  than  came  tramping  into 
the  court.  Such  pale,  care-worn  faces,  such  bedraggled  dresses, 
as  the  poor  Duchess  and  her  females  presented,  each  seated  be- 
hind  her  cavalier ;  while  half  drenched,  half  drowsy  pages  and 
attendants  seemed  ready  to  fall  from  their  horses  with  sleep 
and  fatigue. 

"The  Duchess  was  received  with  a  hearty  welcome  by  my 
ancestors.  She  was  ushered  into  the  Hall  of  the  chateau,  and 
the  fires  soon  crackled  and  blazed  to  cheer  herself  and  her  train ; 
and  every  spit  and  stewpan  was  put  in  requisition  to  prepare 
ample  refreshments  for  the  wayfarers. 

"She  had  a  right  to  our  hospitalities,"  continued  the  little 
Marquis,  drawing  himself  up  with  a  slight  degree  of  stateliness, 
"for  she  was  related  to  our  family.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was: 
Her  father,  Henry  de  Bourbon,  Prince  of  Conde — " 

"  But  did  the  Duchess  pass  the  night  in  the  chateau?"  said  my 
uncle  rather  abruptly,  terrified  at  the  idea  of  getting  involved 
in  one  of  the  Marquis's  genealogical  discussions. 
"  Oh,  as  to  the  Duchess,  she  was  put  into  the  apartment  you 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE,  19 

occupied  last  night;  which,  at  that  time,  was  a  kind  of  state 
apartment.  Her  followers  were  quartered  in  the  chambers 
opening  upon  the  neighboring  corridor,  and  her  favorite  page 
slept  in  an  adjoining  closet.  Up  and  down  the  corridor  walked 
the  great  chasseur,  who  had  announced  her  arrival,  and  who 
acted  as  a  kind  of  sentinel  or  guard.  He  was  a  dark,  stern, 
powerful-looking  fellow,  and  as  the  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  corri 
dor  fell  upon  his  deeply-marked  face  and  sinewy  form,  he 
seemed  capable  of  defending  the  castle  with  his  single  arm. 

"It  was  a  rough,  rude  night;  about  this  time  of  the  year. — 
Apropos— now  I  think  of  it,  last  night  was  the  anniversary  of 
her  visit.  I  may  well  remember  the  precise  date,  for  it  was  a 
night  not  to  be  forgotten  by  our  house.  There  is  a  singular 
tradition  concerning  it  in  our  family. "  Here  the  Marquis  hesi 
tated,  and  a  cloud  seemed  to  gather  about  his  bushy  eye 
brows.  ' '  There  is  a  tradition — that  a  strange  occurrence  took 
place  that  night — a  strange,  mysterious,  inexplicable  occur 
rence." 

Here  he  checked  himself  and  paused. 

"  Did  it  relate  to  that  lady?"  inquired  my  uncle,  eagerly. 

"  It  was  past  the  hour  of  midnight,"  resumed  the  Marquis — 
"  when  the  whole  chateau — " 

Here  he  paused  again — my  uncle  made  a  movement  of  anx 
ious  curiosity. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  Marquis — a  slight  blush  streaking  his 
sullen  visage.  "There  are  some  circumstances  connected  with 
our  family  history  which  I  do  not  like  to  relate.  That  was  a 
rude  period.  A  time  of  great  crimes  among  great  men:  for 
you  know  high  blood,  when  it  runs  wrong,  will  not  run  tamely 
like  blood  of  the  canaille— poor  lady ! — But  I  have  a  little  family 
pride,  that — excuse  me — we  will  change  the  subject  if  you 
please." — 

My  uncle's  curiosity  was  piqued.  The  pompous  and  magnif 
icent  introduction  had  led  him  to  expect  something  wonderful 
in  the  story  to  which  it  served  as  a  kind  of  avenue.  He  had 
no  idea  of  being  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  sudden  fit  of  unreasona 
ble  squeamishness.  Besides,  being  a  traveller,  in  quest  of  in 
formation,  considered  it  his  duty  to  inquire  into  every  thing. 

The  Marquis,  however,  evaded  every  question. 

"Well,"  said  my  uncle,  a  little  petulantly,  "whatever  you 
may  think  of  it,  I  saw  that  lady  last  night." 

The  Marquis  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  him  with  surprise, 

"She  paid  me  a  visit  in  my  bed-chamber." 


20  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

The  Marquis  pulled  out  his  snuff-box  with  a  shrug  and  a 
smile;  taking  it  no  doubt  for  an  awkward  piece  of  English 
pleasantry,  which  politeness  required  him  to  be  charmed  with. 
My  uncle  went  on  gravely,  however,  and  related  the  whole 
circumstance.  The  Marquis  heard  him  through  with  profound 
attention,  holding  his  snuff-box  unopened  in  his  hand.  When 
the  story  was  finished  he  tapped  on  the  lid  of  his  box  deliber 
ately  ;  took  a  long  sonorous  pinch  of  snuff — 

"Bali!"  said  the  Marquis,  and  walked  toward  the  other  end 
of  the  gallery. — 


Here  the  narrator  paused.  The  company  waited  for  some 
time  for  him  to  resume  his  narrative ;  but  he  continued  silent. 

"  Well,"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  "and  what  did  your 
uncle  say  then?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  other. 

"And  what  did  the  Marquis  say  farther?" 

"Nothing." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  narrator,  filling  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  I  surmise,"  said  the  shrewd  old  gentleman  with  the  wag 
gish  nose — "  I  surmise  it  was  the  old  housekeeper  walking  her 
rounds  to  see  that  all  was  right." 

"Bah!"  said  the  narrator,  "my  uncle  was  too  much  accus 
tomed  to  strange  sights  not  to  know  a  ghost  from  a  house 
keeper  I" 

There  was  a  murmur  round  the  table  half  of  merriment,  hah6 
of  disappointment.  I  was  inclined  to  think  the  old  gentleman 
had  really  an  af terpart  of  his  story  in  reserve ;  but  he  sipped 
his  wine  and  said  nothing  more ;  and  there  was  an  odd  expres 
sion  about  his  dilapidated  countenance  that  left  me  in  doubt 
whether  he  were  in  drollery  or  earnest. 

"Egad,"  said  the  knowing  gentleman  with  the  flexible  nose, 
"  this  story  of  your  uncle  puts  me  in  mind  of  one  that  used  to 
be  told  of  an  aunt  of  mine,  by  the  mother's  side ;  though  I  don't 
know  that  it  will  bear  a  comparison ;  as  the  good  lady  was  not 
quite  so  prone  to  meet  with  strange  adventures.  But  at  any 
rate,  you  shall  have  it. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT.  21 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT. 

MY  aunt  was  a  lady  of  large  frame,  strong  mind,  and  great 
resolution;  she  was  what  might  be  termed  a  very  manly 
woman.  My  uncle  was  a  thin,  puny  little  man,  very  meek 
and  acquiescent,  and  no  match  for  my  aunt.  It  was  observed 
that  he  dwindled  and  dwindled  gradually  away,  from  the  day 
of  Ins  marriage.  His  wife's  powerful  mind  was  too  much  for 
him ;  it  wore  him  out.  My  aunt,  however,  took  all  possible 
care  of  him,  had  half  the  doctors  in  town  to  prescribe  for  him, 
made  him  take  all  their  prescriptions,  willy  nitty,  and  dosed 
him  with  physic  enough  to  cure  a  whole  hospital.  All  was  in 
vain.  My  uncle  grew  worse  and  worse  the  more  dosing  and 
nursing  he  underwent,  until  in  the  end  he  added  another  to  the 
long  list  of  matrimonial  victims,  who  have  been  killed  with 
kindness. 

"  And  was  it  his  ghost  that  appeared  to  her?"  asked  the  in 
quisitive  gentleman,  who  had  questioned  the  former  story 
teller. 

"You  shall  hear,"  replied  the  narrator: — My  aunt  took  on 
mightily  for  the  death  of  her  poor  dear  husband !  Perhaps  she 
felt  some  compunction  at  having  given  him  so  much  physic, 
and  nursed  him  into  his  grave.  At  any  rate,  she  did  all  that  a 
widow  could  do  to  honor  his  memory.  She  spared  no  expense 
in  either  the  quantity  or  quality  of  her  mourning  weeds ;  she 
wore  a  miniature  of  him  about  her  neck,  as  large  as  a  little  sun 
dial ;  and  she  had  a  full-length  portrait  of  him  always  hanging 
in  her  bed  chamber.  All  the  world  extolled  her  conduct  to  the 
skies ;  and  it  was  determined,  that  a  woman  who  behaved  so 
well  to  the  memory  of  one  husband,  deserved  soon  to  get 
another. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  she  went  to  take  up  her  resi 
dence  in  an  old  country  seat  in  Derbyshire,  which  had  long  been 
in  the  care  of  merely  a  steward  and  housekeeper.  She  took 
most  of  her  servants  with  her,  intending  to  make  it  her  princi 
pal  abode.  The  house  stood  in  a  lonely,  wild  part  of  the  coun 
try,  among  the  gray  Derbyshire  hills ;  with  a  murderer  hang 
ing  in  chains  on  a  bleak  height  in  full  view. 

The  servants  from  town  were  half  frightened  out  of  their  wits, 
at  the  idea  of  living  in  such  a  dismal,  pagan-looking  place; 
especially  when  they  got  together  in  the  servants'  hall  in  thp 


62  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

evening,  and  compared  notes  on  all  the  hobgoblin  stories  they 
had  picked  up  in  the  course  of  the  day.  They  were  afraid  tc 
venture  alone  about  the  forlorn  black-looking  chambers.  My 
ladies'  maid,  who  was  troubled  with  nerves,  declared  she  could 
never  sleep  alone  in  such  a  "gashly,  rummaging  old  building;" 
and  the  footman,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  young  fellow,  did  all 
in  his  power  to  cheer  her  up. 

My  aunt,  herself,  seemed  to  be  struck  with  the  lonely  appear 
ance  of  the  house.  Before  she  went  to  bed,  therefore,  she 
examined  weU  the  fastenings  of  the  doors  and  windows,  locked 
up  the  plate  with  her  own  hands,  and  carried  the  keys,  together 
with  a  little  box  of  money  and  jewels,  to  her  own  room ;  for 
she  was  a  notable  woman,  and  always  saw  to  all  things  herself. 
Having  put  the  keys  under  her  pillow,  and  dismissed  her  maid, 
she  sat  by  her  toilet  arranging  her  hair ;  for,  being,  in  spite  of 
her  grief  for  my  uncle,  rather  a  buxom  widow,  she  was  a  little 
particular  about  her  person.  She  sat  for  a  little  while  looking 
at  her  face  in  the  glass,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  as 
ladies  are  apt  to  do,  when  they  would  ascertain  if  they  have 
been  in  good  looks;  for  a  roystering  country  squire  of  the 
neighborhood,  with  whom  she  had  flirted  when  a  girl,  had 
called  that  day  to  welcome  her  to  the  country. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  thought  she  heard  something  move  behind 
her.  She  looked  hastily  round,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen.  Nothing  but  the  grimly  painted  portrait  of  her  poor  dear 
man,  which  had  been  hung  against  the  wall.  She  gave  a  heavy 
sigh  to  his  memory,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do,  whenever 
she  spoke  of  him  in  company ;  and  went  on  adjusting  her  night 
dress.  Her  sigh  was  re-echoed ;  or  answered  by  a  long-drawn 
breath.  She  looked  round  again,  but  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 
She  ascribed  these  sounds  to  the  wind,  oozing  through  the  rat 
holes  of  the  old  mansion ;  and  proceeded  leisurely  to  put  her 
hair  in  papers,  when,  all  at  once,  she  thought  she  perceived 
one  of  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  move. 

"  The  back  of  her  head  being  towards  it !"  said  the  story-teller 
with  the  ruined  head,  giving  a  knowing  wink  on  the  sound 
side  of  his  visage— "  good !" 

uYes,  sir!"  replied  drily  the  narrator,  "her  back  being 
towards  the  portrait,  but  her  eye  fixed  on  its  reflection  in  the 
glass." 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  she  perceived  one  of  the  eyes  of  the 
portrait  move.  So  strange  a  circumstance,  as  you  may  well 
suppose,  gave  her  a  sudden  shock.  To  assure  herself  cautiously 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT.  23 

of  the  fact,  she  put  one  hand  to  her  forehead,  as  if  rubbing  it ; 
peeped  through  her  fingers,  and  moved  the  candle  with  the 
other  hand.  The  light  of  the  taper  gleamed  on  the  eye,  and 
was  reflected  from  it.  She  was  sure  it  moved.  Nay,  more,  it 
seemed  to  give  her  a  wink,  as  she  had  sometimes  known  her 
husband  to  do  when  living  1  It  struck  a  momentary  chill  to  her 
heart;  for  she  was  a  lone  woman,  and  felt  herself  fearfully 
situated. 

The  chill  was  but  transient.  My  aunt,  who  was  almost  as 
resolute  a  personage  as  your  uncle,  sir,  (turning  to  the  oldv 
story-teller,)  became  instantly  calm  and  collected.  She  went 
on  adjusting  her  dress.  She  even  hummed  a  favorite  air,  and 
did  not  make  a  single  false  note.  She  casually  overturned  a 
dressing  box ;  took  a  candle  and  picked  up  the  articles  leisurely, 
one  by  one,  from  the  floor,  pursued  a  rolling  pin-cushion  that 
was  making  the  best  of  its  way  under  the  bed ;  then  opened  the 
door;  looked  for  an  instant  into  the  corridor,  as  if  in  doubt 
whether  to  go ;  and  then  walked  quietly  out. 

She  hastened  down-stairs,  ordered  the  servants  to  arm  them 
selves  with  the  first  weapons  that  came  to  hand,  placed  herself 
at  their  head,  and  returned  almost  immediately. 

Her  hastily  levied  army  presented  a  formidable  force.  The 
steward  had  a  rusty  blunderbuss ;  the  coachman  a  loaded  whip ; 
the  footman  a  pair  of  horse  pistols ;  the  cook  a  huge  chopping 
knife,  and  the  butler  a  bottle  in  each  hand.  My  aunt  led  the 
van  with  a  red-hot  poker;  and,  in  my  opinion,  she  was  the 
most  formidable  of  the  party.  The  waiting  maid  brought  up 
the  rear,  dreading  to  stay  alone  in  the  servants'  hall,  smelling 
to  a  broken  bottle  of  volatile  salts,  and  expressing  her  terror  of 
the  ghosteses. 

"  Ghosts !"  said  my  aunt  resolutely,  "  I'll  singe  their  whiskers 
for  them !" 

They  entered  the  chamber.  All  was  still  and  undisturbed  as 
when  she  left  it.  They  approached  the  portrait  of  my  uncle. 

"Pull  me  down  that  picture!"  cried  my  aunt. 

A  heavy  groan,  and  a  sound  like  the  chattering  of  teeth,  was 
heard  from  the  portrait.  The  servants  shrunk  back.  The  maid 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  clung  to  the  footman. 

"  Instantly !"  added  my  aunt,  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot. 

The  picture  was  pulled  down,  and  from  a  recess  behind  it,  in 
which  had  formerly  stood  a  clock,  they  hauled  forth  a  round 
shouldered,  black -bearded  varlet,  with  a  knife  as  long  as  my 
arm,  but  trembling  all  over  like  an  aspen  leaf. 


24  TALES  6F  A   TRAVELLER. 

"Well,  and  who  was  he?  No  ghost,  I  suppose  I"  said  th« 
inquisitive  gentleman. 

"  A  knight  of  the  post,"  replied  the  narrator,  "who  had  heen 
smitten  with  the  worth  of  the  wealthy  widow;  or  rather  a 
marauding  Tarquin,  who  had  stolen  into  her  chamber  to  violate 
her  purse  and  rifle  her  strong  box  when  all  the  house  should  be 
asleep.  In  plain  terms,"  continued  he,  "the  vagabond  was  a 
loose  idle  fellow  of  the  neighborhood,  who  had  once  been  a 
servant  in  the  house,  and  had  been  employed  to  assist  in  arrang 
ing  it  for  the  reception  of  its  mistress.  He  confessed  that  he 
had  contrived  his  hiding-place  for  his  nefarious  purposes,  and 
had  borrowed  an  eye  from  the  portrait  by  way  of  a  recon- 
noitering  hole." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  him— did  they  hang  him?" 
resumed  the  questioner. 

"Hang  him? — how  could  they?"  exclaimed  a  beetle-browed 
barrister,  with  a  hawk's  nose — "the  offence  was  not  capital — 
no  robbery  nor  assault  had  been  committed— no  forcible  entry 
or  breaking  into  the  premises — " 

"My  aunt,"  said  the  narrator,  "was  a  woman  of  spirit,  and 
apt  to  take  the  law  into  her  own  hands.  She  had  her  own 
notions  of  cleanliness  also.  She  ordered  the  fellow  to  be  drawn 
through  the  horsepond  to  cleanse  away  all  offences,  and  then 
to  be  well  rubbed  down  with  an  oaken  towel." 

"And  what  became  of  him  afterwards?"  said  the  inquisitive 
gentleman. 

"  I  do  not  exactly  know— I  believe  he  was  sent  on  a  voyage 
of  improvement  to  Botany  Bay." 

"And  your  aunt—"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman — "I'll 
warrant  she  took  care  to  make  her  maid  sleep  in  the  room  with 
her  after  that." 

"No,  sir,  she  did  better — she  gave  her  hand  shortly  after  to 
the  roystering  squire ;  for  she  used  to  observe  it  was  a  dismal 
thing  for  a  woman  to  sleep  alone  in  the  country." 

' '  She  was  right, "  observed  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  nod 
ding  his  head  sagaciously — "  but  I  am  sorry  they  did  not  hang 
that  fellow." 

It  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  the  last  narrator  had  brought 
his  tale  to  the  most  satisfactory  conclusion ;  though  a  country 
clergyman  present  regretted  that  the  uncle  and  aunt,  who 
figured  in  the  different  stories,  had  not  been  married  together 
They  certainly  would  have  been  well  matched. 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON.  25 

"But  I  don't  see,  after  all,"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman, 
"that  there  was  any  ghost  in  this  last  story." 

"  Oh,  if  it's  ghosts  you  want,  honey,"  cried  the  Irish  captain 
of  dragoons,  ' '  if  it's  ghosts  you  want,  you  shall  have  a  whole 
regiment  of  them.  And  since  these  gentlemen  have  been 
giving  the  adventures  of  their  uncles  and  aunts,  faith  and  I'll 
e'en  give  you  a  chapter  too,  out  of  my  own  family  history." 


THE  BOLD  DKAGOON; 

OR  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  GRANDFATHER. 

MY  grandfather  was  a  bold  dragoon,  for  it's  a  profession,  d'ye 
see,  that  has  run  in  the  family.  All  my  forefathers  have  been 
dragoons  and  died  upon  the  field  of  honor  except  myself,  and 
I  hope  my  posterity  may  be  able  to  say  the  same ;  however,  I 
don't  mean  to  be  vainglorious.  Well,  my  grandfather,  as  I 
said,  was  a  bold  dragoon,  and  had  served  in  the  Low  Coun 
tries.  In  fact,  he  was  one  of  that  very  army,  which,  according 
to  my  uncle  Toby,  ' '  swore  so  terribly  in  Flanders. "  He  could 
swear  a  good  stick  himself ;  and,  moreover,  was  the  very  man 
that  introduced  the  doctrine  Corporal  Trim  mentions,  of  radi 
cal  heat  and  radical  moisture ;  or,  in  other  words,  'the  mode 
of  keeping  out  the  damps  of  ditch  water  by  burnt  brandy. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it's  nothing  to  the  purport  of  my  story.  I 
only  tell  it  to  show  you  that  my  grandfather  was  a  man  not 
easily  to  be  humbugged.  He  had  seen  service ;  or,  according 
to  his  own  phrase,  "he  had  seen  the  devil" — and  that's  say 
ing  everything. 

Well,  gentlemen,  my  grandfather  was  on  his  way  to  Eng 
land,  for  which  he  intended  to  embark  at  Ostend ; — bad  luck 
to  the  place  for  one  where  I  was  kept  by  storms  and  head 
winds  for  three  long  days,  and  the  divil  of  a  jolly  companion 
or  pretty  face  to  comfort  me.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my 
grandfather  was  on  his  way  to  England,  or  rather  to  Ostend — 
no  matter  which,  it's  all  the  same.  So  one  evening,  towards 
nightfall,  he  rode  jollily  into  Bruges.  Very  like  you  all  know 
Bruges,  gentlemen,  a  queer,  old-fashioned  Flemish  town,  once 
they  say  a  great  place  for  trade  and  money-making,  in  old 
fames,  when  the  Mynheers  were  in  their  glory ;  but  almost  as 
large  and  as  empty  as  an  Irishman's  pocket  at  the  present  day. 


26  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

Well,  gentlemen,  it  was  the  time  of  the  annual  fair.  All 
Bruges  was  crowded;  and  the  canals  swarmed  with  Dutch 
boats,  and  the  streets  swarmed  with  Dutch  merchants;  and 
there  was  hardly  any  getting  along  for  goods,  wares,  and 
merchandises,  and  peasants  in  big  breeches,  and  women  in 
half  a  score  of  petticoats. 

My  grandfather  rode  jollily  along  in  his  easy,  slashing  way, 
for  he  was  a  saucy,  sunshiny  fellow — staring  about  him  at  the 
motley  crowd,  and  the  old  houses  with  gable  ends  to  the 
street  and  storks'  nests  on  the  chimneys ;  winking  at  the  ya 
vrouws  who  showed  their  faces  at  the  windows,  and  joking  the 
women  right  and  left  in  the  street ;  all  of  whom  laughed  and 
took  it  in  amazing  good  part;  for  though  he  did  not  know 
a  word  of  their  language,  yet  he  always  had  a  knack  of  making 
himself  understood  among  the  women. 

Well,  gentlemen,  it  being  the  time  of  the  annual  fair,  all  the 
town  was  crowded ;  every  inn  and  tavern  full,  and  my  grand 
father  applied  in  vain  from  one  to  the  other  for  admittance. 
At  length  he  rode  up  to  an  old  rackety  inn  that  looked  ready 
to  fall  to  pieces,  and  which  all  the  rats  would  have  run  away 
from,  if  they  could  have  found  room  in  any  other  house  to  put 
their  heads.  It  was  just  such  a  queer  building  as  you  see  in 
Dutch  pictures,  with  a  tall  roof  that  reached  up  into  the 
clouds ;  and  as  many  garrets,  one  over  the  other,  as  the  seven 
heavens  of  Mahomet.  Nothing  had  saved  it  from  tumbling 
down  but  a  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney,  which  always  brings 
good  luck  to  a  house  in  the  Low  Countries ;  and  at  the  very 
time  of  my  grandfather's  arrival,  there  were  two  of  these  long- 
legged  birds  of  grace,  standing  like  ghosts  on  the  chimney  top. 
Faith,  but  they've  kept  the  house  on  its  legs  to  this  very  day ; 
for  you  may  see  it  any  time  you  pass  through  Bruges,  as  it 
stands  there  yet ;  only  it  is  turned  into  a  brewery — a  brew 
ery  of  strong  Flemish  beer;  at  least  it  was  so  when  I  came* 
that  way  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

My  grandfather  eyed  the  house  curiously  as  he  approached. 
It  might  not  altogether  have  struck  his  fancy,  had  he  not  seen 
in  large  letters  over  the  door, 

HEER  VERKOOPT  MAN  GOEDEN  DRANK. 

My  grandfather  had  learnt  enough  of  the  language  to  know 
that  the  sign  promised  good  liquor.  "This  is  the  house  for 
me,"  said  he,  stopping  short  before  the  door. 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON.  27 

The  sudden  appearance  of  a  dashing  dragoon  was  an  event 
in  an  old  inn,  frequented  only  by  the  peaceful  sons  of  traffic. 
A  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  a  stately  ample  man,  in  a  broad 
Flemish  hat,  and  who  was  the  great  man  and  great  patron  of 
the  establishment,  sat  smoking  a  clean  long  pipe  on  one  side  of 
the  door;  a  fat  little  distiller  of  Geneva  from  Schiedam,  sat 
smoking  on  the  other,  and  the  bottle-nosed  host  stood  in  the 
door,  and  the  comely  hostess,  in  crimped  cap,  beside  him;  and 
the  hostess'  daughter,  a  plump  Flanders  lass,  with  long  gold 
pendants  in  her  ears,  was  at  a  side  window. 

"  Humph!"  said  the  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  with  a  sulky 
glance  at  the  stranger. 

"  Der  duyvel !"  said  the  fat  little  distiller  of  Schiedam. 

The  landlord  saw  with  the  quick  glance  of  a  publican  that 
the  new  guest  was  not  at  all,  at  all,  to  the  taste  of  the  old  ones ; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  himself  like  my  grandfather's 
saucy  eye.  He  shook  his  head — "  Not  a  garret  in  the  house  but 
was  full. " 

"  Not  a  garret !"  echoed  the  landlady. 

"  Not  a  garret!"  echoed  the  daughter. 

The  burgher  of  Antwerp  and  the  little  distiller  of  Schiedam 
continued  to  "smoke  their  pipes  sullenly,  eyed  the  enemy 
askance  from  under  their  broad  hats,  but  said  nothing. 

My  grandfather  was  not  a  man  to  be  browbeaten.  He  threw 
the  reins  on  his  horse's  neck,  cocked  his  hat  on  one  side,  stuck 
one  arm  akimbo,  slapped  his  broad  thigh  with  the  other 
hand — 

"  Faith  and  troth !"  said  he,  "but  I'D  sleep  in  this  house  this 
very  night !" 

My  grandfather  had  on  a  tight  pair  of  buckskins — the  slap 
went  to  the  landlady's  heart. 

He  followed  up  the  vow  by  jumping  off  his  horse,  and  mak 
ing  his  way  past  the  staring  Mynheers  into  the  public  room. 
May  be  you've  been  in  the  barroom  of  an  old  Flemish  inn — 
faith,  but  a  handsome  chamber  it  was  as  you'd  wish  to  see ; 
with  a  brick  floor,  a  great  fire-place,  with  the  whole  Bible  his 
tory  in  glazed  tiles ;  and  then  the  mantel-piece,  pitching  itself 
head  foremost  out  of  the  wall,  with  a  whole  regiment  of 
cracked  tea-pots  and  earthen  jugs  paraded  on  it ;  not  to  men 
tion  half  a  dozen  great  Delft  platters  hung  about  the  room  by 
way  of  pictures;  and  the  little  bar  in  one  corner,  and  the 
bouncing  bar-maid  inside  of  it  with  a  red  calico  cap  and  yellow 
ear-drops. 


28  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

My  grandfather  snapped  his  fingers  over  his  head,  as  he  cast 
an  eye  round  the  room:  "Faith,  this  is  the  very  house  I've 
been  looking  after,"  said  he. 

There  was  some  farther  show  of  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
garrison,  but  my  grandfather  was  an  old  soldier,  and  an  Irish 
man  to  boot,  and  not  easily  repulsed,  especially  after  he  had 
got  into  the  fortress.  So  he  blarney'd  the  landlord,  kissed  the 
landlord's  wife,  tickled  the  landlord's  daughter,  chucked  the 
bar-maid  under  the  chin ;  and  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  tiiat  it 
would  be  a  thousand  pities,  and  a  burning  shame  into  the  bar 
gain,  to  turn  such  a  bold  dragoon  into  the  streets.  So  they  laid 
their  heads  together,  that  is  to  say,  my  grandfather  and  the 
landlady,  and  it  was  at  length  agreed  to  accommodate  him 
with  an  old  chamber  that  had  for  some  time  been  shut  up. 

"Some  say  it's  haunted !"  whispered  the  landlord's  daughter, 
"but  you're  a  bold  dragoon,  and  I  dare  say  you  don't  fear 


"The  divil  a  bit!"  said  my  grandfather,  pinching  her  plump 
cheek;  "but  if  I  should  be  troubled  by  ghosts,  I've  been  to  the 
Red  Sea  in  my  time,  and  have  a  pleasant  way  of  laying  them, 
my  darling !" 

And  then  he  whispered  something  to  the  girl  which  made  her 
laugh,  and  give  him  a  good-humored  box  on  the  ear.  In  short, 
there  was  nobody  knew  better  how  to  make  his  way  among  the 
petticoats  than  my  grandfather. 

In  a  little  while,  as  was  his  usual  way,  he  took  complete  pos 
session  of  the  house :  swaggering  all  over  it ; — into  the  stable  to 
look  after  his  horse ;  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after  his  supper. 
He  had  something  to  say  or  do  with  every  one ;  smoked  with 
the  Dutchmen ;  drank  with  the  Germans ;  slapped  the  men  on 
the  shoulders,  tickled  the  women  under  the  ribs : — never  since 
the  days  of  Ally  Croaker  had  such  a  rattling  blade  been  seen. 
The  landlord  stared  at  him  with  astonishment ;  the  landlord's 
daughter  hung  her  head  and  giggled  whenever  he  came  near ; 
and  as  he  turned  his  back  and  swaggered  along,  his  tight  jacket 
setting  off  his  broad  shoulders  and  plump  buckskins,  and  his  long 
sword  trailing  by  his  side,  the  maids  whispered  to  one  another 
— "  What  a  proper  man!" 

At  supper  my  grandfather  took  command  of  the  table  d'hote 
as  though  he  had  been  at  home ;  helped  everybody,  not  forget 
ting  himself;  talked  with  every  one,  whether  he  understood 
their  language  or  not ;  and  made  his  way  into  the  intimacy  of 
the  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  who  had  never  been  known  to  be 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON.  29 

sociable  with  any  one  during  his  life.  In  fact,  he  revolution 
ized  the  whole  establishment,  and  gave  it  such  a  rouse,  that 
the  very  house  reeled  with  it.  He  outsat  every  one  at  table 
excepting  the  little  fat  distiller  of  Schiedam,  who  had  sat  soak 
ing  for  a  long  time  before  he  broke  forth ;  but  when  he  did,  he 
was  a  very  devil  incarnate.  He  took  a  violent  affection  for  my 
grandfather;  so  they  sat  drinking,  and  smoking,  and  telling 
stories,  and  singing  Dutch  and  Irish  songs,  without  understand 
ing  a  word  each  other  said,  until  the  little  Hollander  was  fairly 
swampt  with  his  own  gin  and  water,  and  carried  off  to  bed, 
whooping  and  hiccuping,  and  trolling  the  burthen  of  a  Low 
Dutch  love  song. 

Well,  gentlemen,  my  grandfather  was  shown  to  his  quarters, 
up  a  huge  staircase  composed  of  loads  of  hewn  timber;  and 
through  long  rigmarole  passages,  hung  with  blackened  paintings 
of  fruit,  and  fish,  and  game,  and  country  frollics,  and  huge 
kitchens,  and  portly  burgomasters,  such  as  you  see  about  old- 
fashioned  Flemish  inns,  till  at  length  he  arrived  at  his  room. 

An  old-times  chamber  it  was,  sure  enough,  and  crowded  with 
all  kinds  of  trumpery.  It  looked  like  an  infirmary  for  decayed 
and  superannuated  furniture ;  where  everything  diseased  and 
disabled  was  sent  to  nurse,  or  to  be  forgotten.  Or  rather,  it 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  general  congress  of  old  legitimate 
moveables,  where  every  kind  and  country  had  a  representative. 
No  two  chairs  were  alike :  such  high  backs  and  low  backs,  and 
leather  bottoms  and  worsted  bottoms,  and  straw  bottoms,  and 
no  bottoms ;  and  cracked  marble  tables  with  curiously  carved 
legs,  holding  balls  in  their  claws,  as  though  they  were  going  to 
play  at  ninepins. 

My  grandfather  made  a  bow  to  the  motley  assemblage  as  he 
entered,  and  having  undressed  himself,  placed  his  light  in  the 
fire-place,  asking  pardon  of  the  tongs,  which  seemed  to  be 
irnaking  love  to  the  shovel  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  whisper 
ing  soft  nonsense  in  its  ear. 

The  rest  of  the  guests  were  by  this  time  sound  asleep  ;  for 
your  Mynheers  are  huge  sleepers.  The  house  maids,  one  by 
one,  crept  up  yawning  to  their  attics,  and  not  a  female  head 
in  the  inn  was  laid  on  a  pillow  that  night  without  dreaming  of 
the  Bold  Dragoon. 

My  grandfather,  for  his  part,  got  into  bed,  and  drew  over 
him  one  of  those  great  bags  of  down,  under  which  they  smother 
a  man  in  the  Low  Countries  ;  and  there  he  lay,  melting  between 
tvro  feather  beds,  like  an  anchovy  sandwich  between  two  slices 


30  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

of  toast  and  butter.  He  was  a  warm-complexioned  man,  and 
this  smothering  played  the  very  deuce  with  him.  So,  sure 
enough,  in  a  little  while  it  seemed  as  if  a  legion  of  imps  were 
twitching  at  him,  and  all  the  blood  in  his -veins  was  in  fever 
heat. 

He  lay  still,  however,  until  all  the  house  was  quiet,  except 
ing  the  snoring  of  the  Mynheers  from  the  different  chambers ; 
who  answered  one  another  in  all  kinds  of  tones  and  cadences, 
like  so  many  bull-frogs  in  a  swamp.  The  quieter  the  house 
became,  the  more  unquiet  became  my  grandfather.  He  waxed 
warmer  and  warmer,  until  at  length  the  bed  became  too  hot  to 
hold  him. 

"May  be  the  maid  had  warmed  it  too  much?"  said  the  cur 
ious  gentleman,  uiquiringly. 

"I  rather  think  the  contrary,"  replied  the  Irishman.  "But 
be  that  as  it  may,  it  grew  too  hot  for  my  grandfather." 

"Faith  there's  no  standing  this  any  longer,"  says  he;  so  he 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  went  strolling  about  the  house. 

"What  for?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman. 

"Why,  to  cool  himself  to  be  sure,"  replied  the  other,  "or 

perhaps  to  find  a  more  comfortable  bed — or  perhaps but  no 

matter  what  he  went  for— he  never  mentioned ;  and  there's  no 
use  in  taking  up  our  time  in  conjecturing." 

Well,  my  grandfather  had  been  for  some  time  absent  from 
his  room,  and  was  returning,  perfectly  cool,  when  just  as  he 
reached  the  door  he  heard  a  strange  noise  within.  He  paused 
and  listened.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  was  trying  to  hum  a 
tune  in  defiance  of  the  asthma.  He  recollected  the  report  of 
the  room's  being  haunted ;  but  he  was  no  believer  in  ghosts. 
So  he  pushed  the  door  gently  ajar,  and  peeped  in. 

Egad,  gentlemen,  there  was  a  gambol  carrying  on  within 
enough  to  have  astonished  St.  Anthony. 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  he  saw  a  pale  weazen-faced  fellow  in  a 
long  flannel  gown  and  a  tall  white  night-cap  with  a  tassel  to  it, 
who  sat  by  the  fire,  with  a  bellows  under  his  arm  by  way  of 
bagpipe,  from  which  he  forced  the  asthmatical  music  that  had 
bothered  my  grandfather.  As  he  played,  too,  he  kept  twitch 
ing  about  with  a  thousand  queer  contortions;  nodding  his 
head  and  bobbing  about  his  tasselled  night-cap. 

My  grandfather  thought  this  very  odd,  and  mighty  presump 
tuous,  and  was  about  to  demand  what  business  he  had  to  play 
bis  wind  instruments  in  another  gentleman's  quarters,  when 
a  new  cause  of  astonishment  met  his  eye.  From  the  opposite 


Tim  BOLD  DRAGOON.  31 

side  of  the  room  a  long-backed,  bandy-legged  chair,  covered 
with  leather,  and  studded  all  over  in  a  coxcomical  fashion  with 
little  brass  nails,  got  suddenly  into  motion ;  thrust  out  first  a 
claw  foot,  then  a  crooked  arm,  and  at  length,  making  a  leg, 
slided  gracefully  up  to  an  easy  chair,  of  tarnished  brocade, 
with  a  hole  in  its  bottom,  and  led  it  gallantly  out  in  a  ghostly 
minuet  about  the  floor. 

The  musician  now  played  fiercer  and  fiercer,  and  bobbed  his 
head  and  his  nightcap  about  like  mad.  By  degrees  the  dancing 
mania  seemed  to  seize  upon  all  the  other  pieces  of  furniture. 
The  antique,  long-bodied  chairs  paired  off  in  couples  and  led 
down  a  country  dance ;  a  three-legged  stool  danced  a  hornpipe, 
though  horribly  puzzled  by  its  supernumerary  leg;  while  the 
amorous  tongs  seized  the  shovel  round  the  waist,  and  whirled 
it  about  the  room  in  a  German  waltz.  In  short,  all  the  move- 
ables  got  in  motion,  capering  about ;  pirouetting,  hands  across, 
right  and  left,  like  so  many  devils,  all  except  a  great  clothes- 
press,  which  kept  curtseying  and  curtseying,  like  a  dowager, 
in  one  corner,  in  exquisite  time  to  the  music ; — being  either  too 
corpulent  to  dance,  or  perhaps  at  a  loss  for  a  partner. 

My  grandfather  concluded  the  latter  to  be  the  reason ;  so, 
being,  like  a  true  Irishman,  devoted  to  the  sex,  and  at  all  times 
ready  for  a  frolic,  he  bounced  into  the  room,  calling  to  the 
musician  to  strike  up  "Paddy  O'Rafferty,"  capered  up  to  the 
clothes-press  and  seized  upon  two  handles  to  lead  her  out : — 
When,  whizz ! — the  whole  revel  was  at  an  end.  The  chairs, 
tables,  tongs,  and  shovel  slunk  in  an  instant  as  quietly  into 
their  places  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  and  the  musician 
vanished  up  the  chimney,  leaving  the  bellows  behind  him  in 
his  hurry.  My  grandfather  found  himself  seated  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  with  the  clothes-press  sprawling  before  him,  and 
the  two  handles  jerked  off  and  in  his  hands. 

"Then  after  all,  this  was  a  mere  dream !"  said  the  inquisitive 
gentleman. 

"The  divil  a  bit  of  a  dream!"  replied  the  Irishman:  "there 
never  was  a  truer  tact  in  this  world.  Faith,  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  any  man  tell  my  grandfather  it  was  a  dream." 

Well,  gentlemen,  as  the  clothes-press  was  a  mighty  heavy 
body,  and  my  grandfather  likewise,  particularly  in  rear,  you 
may  easily  suppose  two  such  heavy  bodies  coming  to  the 
ground  would  make  a  bit  of  a  noise.  Faith,  the  old  mansion 
shook  as  though  it  had  mistaken  it  for  an  earthquake.  The 
whole  garrison  was  alarmed.  The  landlord,  who  slept  just 


32  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

below,  hurried  up  with  a  candle  to  inquire  the  cause,  but  with 
all  his  haste  his  daughter  had  hurried  to  the  scene  of  uproar 
before  him.  The  landlord  was  followed  by  the  landlady,  who 
was  followed  by  the  bouncing  bar-maid,  who  was  followed  by 
the  simpering  chambermaids  all  holding  together,  as  well  as 
they  could,  such  garments  as  they  had  first  lain  hands  on ;  but 
all  in  a  terrible  hurry  to  see  what  the  devil  was  to  pay  in  the 
chamber  of  the  bold  dragoon. 

My  grandfather  related  the  marvellous  scene  he  had  wit 
nessed,  and  the  prostrate  clothes-press,  and  the  broken  handles> 
bore  testimony  to  the  fact.  There  was  no  contesting  such 
evidence;  particularly  with  a  lad  of  my  grandfather's  com 
plexion,  who  seemed  able  to  make  good  every  word  either  with 
sword  or  shillelah.  So  the  landlord  scratched  his  head  and 
looked  silly,  as  he  was  apt  to  do  when  puzzled.  The  landlady 
scratched — no,  she  did  not  scratch  her  head, — but  she  knil 
her  brow,  and  did  not  seem  half  pleased  with  the  explanation. 
But  the  landlady's  daughter  corroborated  it  by  recollecting 
that  the  last  person  who  had  dwelt  in  that  chamber  was  a 
famous  juggler  who  had  died  of  St.  Vitus's  dance,  and  no  doub1 
had  infected  all  the  furniture. 

This  set  all  things  to  rights,  particularly  when  the  chamber 
maids  declared  that  they  had  all  witnessed  strange  carryings 
on  in  that  room; — and  as  they  declared  this  "upon  their 
honors,"  there  could  not  remain  a  doubt  upon  the  subject. 

"And  did  your  grandfather  go  to  bed  again  in  that  room?" 
said  the  inquisitive  gentleman. 

"That's  more  than  I  can  tell.  Where  he  passed  the  rest  of 
the  night  was  a  secret  he  never  disclosed.  In  fact,  though  he 
had  seen  much  service,  he  was  but  indifferently  acquainted 
with  geography,  and  apt  to  make  blunders  in  his  travels  about 
inns  at  night,  that  it  would  have  puzzled  him  sadly  to  account 
for  in  the  morning." 

"  Was  he  ever  apt  to  walk  in  his  sleep  ?"  said  the  knowing 
old  gentleman. 

"Never  that  I  heard  of." 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.       33 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE. 

As  ONE  story  of  the  kind  produces  another,  and  as  all  the 
company  seemed  fully  engrossed  by  the  topic,  and  disposed  to 
bring  their  relatives  and  ancestors  upon  the  scene,  there  is  no 
knowing  how  many  more  ghost  adventures  we  might  have 
heard,  had  not  a  corpulent  old  fox-hunter,  who  had  slept 
soundly  through  the  whole,  now  suddenly  awakened,  with  a 
loud  and  long-drawn  yawn.  The  sound  broke  the  charm ;  the 
ghosts  took  to  flight  as  though  it  had  been  cock-crowing,  and 
there  was  a  universal  move  for  bed. 

"  And  now  for  the  haunted  chamber,"  said  the  Irish  captain, 
taking  his  candle. 

"  Aye,  who's  to  be  the  hero  of  the  night?"  said  the  gentleman 
with  the  ruined  head. 

"That  we  shall  see  in  the  morning,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
with  the  nose :  "whoever  looks  pale  and  grizzly  will  have  seen 
the  ghost." 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Baronet,  "  there's  many  a  true 
thing  said  in  •  jest.  In  fact,  one  of  you  will  sleep  in  a  room 
to-night " 

"What — a  haunted  room?  a  haunted  room?  I  claim  the 
adventure — and  I— and  I— and  I,"  cried  a  dozen  guests,  talking 
and  laughing  at  the  same  time. 

"No — no,"  said  mine  host,  "there  is  a  secret  about  one  of 
my  rooms  on  which  I  feel  disposed  to  try  an  experiment.  So, 
gentlemen,  none  of  you  shall  know  who  has  the  haunted 
chamber,  until  circumstances  reveal  it.  I  will  not  even  know 
it  myself,  but  will  leave  it  to  chance  and  the  allotment  of  the 
'housekeeper.  At  the  same  time,  if  it  will  be  any  satisfaction 
to  you,  I  will  observe,  for  the  honor  of  my  paternal  mansion, 
that  there's  scarcely  a  chamber  in  it  but  is  well  worthy  of  being 
haunted." 

We  now  separated  for  the  night,  and  each  went  to  his  allotted 
toom.  Mine  was  in  one  wing  of  the  building,  and  I  could  not 
but  smile  at  its  resemblance  in  style  to  those  eventful  apart 
ments  described  in  the  tales  of  the  supper  table.  It  was 
spacious  and  gloomy,  decorated  with  lamp-black  portraits,  a 
bed  of  ancient  damask,  with  a  tester  sufficiently  lofty  to  grace 
a  couch  of  state,  and  a  number  of  massive  pieces  of  old- 
fashioned  furniture.  I  drew  a  crreat  claw-footed  arm-chair 


34  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

before  the  wide  fire-place;  stirred  up  the  fire;  sat  looking  into 
it,  and  musing  upon  the  odd  stories  I  had  heard ;  until,  partly 
overcome  by  the  fatigue  of  the  day's  hunting,  and  partly  by 
the  wine  and  wassail  of  mine  host,  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair. 

The  uneasiness  of  my  position  made  my  slumber  troubled, 
and  laid  me  at  the  mercy  of  all  kinds  of  wild  and  fearful 
dreams;  now  it  was  that  my  perfidious  dinner  and  supper 
rose  in  rebellion  against  my  peace.  I  was  hag-ridden  by  a  fat 
saddle  of  mutton ;  a  plum  pudding  weighed  like  lead  upon  my 
conscience ;  the  merry  thought  of  a  capon  filled  me  with  horri 
ble  suggestions ;  and  a  devilled  leg  of  a  turkey  stalked  in  all 
kinds  of  diabolical  shapes  through  my  imagination.  In  short, 
I  had  a  violent  fit  of  the  nightmare.  Some  strange  indefinite 
evil  seemed  hanging  over  me  that  I  could  not  avert;  some 
thing  terrible  and  loathsome  oppressed  me  that  I  could  not 
shake  off.  I  was  conscious  of  being  asleep,  and  strove  to  rouse 
myself,  but  every  effort  redoubled  the  evil;  until  gasping, 
struggling,  almost  strangling,  I  suddenly  sprang  bolt  upright 
in  my  chair,  and  awoke. 

The  light  on  the  mantel-piece  had  burnt  low,  and  the  wick 
was  divided;  there  was  a  great  winding  sheet  made  by  the 
dripping  wax,  on  the  side  towards  me.  The  disordered  taper 
emitted  a  broad  flaring  flame,  and  threw  a  strong  light  on  a 
painting  over  the  fire-place,  which  I  had  not  hitherto  observed. 

It  consisted  merely  of  a  head,  or  rather  a  face,  that  appeared 
to  be  staring  full  upon  me,  and  with  an  expression  that  was 
startling.  It  was  without  a  frame,  and  at  the  first  glance  I 
could  hardly  persuade  myself  that  it  was  not  a  real  face, 
thrusting  itself  out  of  the  dark  oaken  pannel.  I  sat  in  my 
chair  gazing  at  it,  and  the  more  I  gazed  the  more  it  disquieted 
me.  I  had  never  before  been  affected  in  the  same  way  by  any 
painting.  The  emotions  it  caused  were  strange  and  indefinite. 
They  were  something  like  what  I  have  heard  ascribed  to  the 
eyes  of  the  basilisk ;  or  like  that  mysterious  influence  in  rep 
tiles  termed  fascination.  I  passed  my  hand  over  my  eyes 
several  times,  as  if  seeking  instinctively  to  brush  away  this 
allusion — in  vain — they  instantly  reverted  to  the  picture,  and 
its  chilling,  creeping  influence  over  my  flesh  was  redoubled. 

I  looked  around  the  room  on  other  pictures,  either  to  divert 
my  attention,  or  to  see  whether  the  same  effect  would  t»e  pro 
duced  by  them.  Some  of  them  were  grim  enough  to  produce 
the  effect,  if  the  mere  grimness  of  the  painting  produced  it- 
no  such  thing.  My  eye  passed  over  them  all  with  perfect 


ADVENTURE  OF  TEE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.        35 

indifference,  but  the  moment  it  reverted  to  this  visage  over  the 
fire-place,  it  was  as  if  an  electric  shock  darted  through  me. 
The  other  pictures  were  dim  and  faded ;  but  this  one  protruded 
from  a  plain  black  ground  in  the  strongest  relief,  and  with  won 
derful  truth  of  coloring.  The  expression  was  that  of  agony — 
the  agony  of  intense  bodily  pain ;  but  a  menace  scowled  upon 
the  brow,  and  a  few  sprinklings  of  blood  added  to  its  ghast- 
liness.  Yet  it  was  not  all  these  characteristics — it  was  some 
horror  of  the  mind,  some  inscrutable  antipathy  awakened  by 
this  picture,  which  harrowed  up  my  feelings. 

I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  this  was  chimerical ;  that  my 
brain  was  confused  by  the  fumes  of  mine  host's  good  cheer, 
and,  in  some  measure,  by  the  odd  stories  about  paintings 
which  had  been  told  at  supper.  I  determined  to  shake  off 
these  vapors  of  the  mind;  rose  from  my  chair,  and  walked 
about  the  room ;  snapped  my  fingers ;  rallied  myself ;  laughed 
aloud.  It  was  a  forced  laugh,  and  the  echo  of  it  in  the  old 
chamber  jarred  upon  my  ear.  I  walked  to  the  window ;  tried 
to  discern  the  landscape  through  the  glass.  It  was  pitch  dark 
ness,  and  howling  storm  without;  and  as  I  heard  the  wind 
moan  among  the  trees,  I  cought  a  reflection  of  this  accursed 
risage  in  the  pane  of  glass,  as  though  it  were  staring  through 
the  window  at  me.  Even  the  reflection  of  it  was  thrilling. 

How  was  this  vile  nervous  fit,  for  such  I  now  persuaded 
myself  it  was,  to  be  conquered?  I  determined  to  force  myself 
not  to  look  at  the  painting  but  to  undress  quickly  and  get  into 
bed.  I  began  to  undress,  but  in  spite  of  every  effort  I  could 
not  keep  myself  from  stealing  a  glance  every  now  and  then  at 
the  picture;  and  a  glance  was  now  sufficient  to  distress  me. 
Even  when  my  back  was  turned  to  it,  the  idea  of  this  strange 
face  behind  me,  peering  over  my  shoulder,  was  insufferable.  I 
threw  off  my  clothes  and  hurried  into  bed;  but  still  this  visage 
ftazed  upon  me.  I  had  a  full  view  of  it  from  my  bed,  and  for 
some  time  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  it.  I  had  grown 
uervous  to  a  dismal  degree. 

I  put  out  the  light,  and  tried  to  force  myself  to  sleep ; — all  in 
vain !  The  fire  gleaming  up  a  little,  threw  an  uncertain  light 
about  the  room,  leaving,  however,  the  region  of  the  picture  in 
deep  shadow.  What,  thought  I,  if  this  be  the  chamber  about 
which  mine  host  spoke  as  having  a  mystery  reigning  over  it? — 
I  had  taken  his  words  merely  as  spoken  in  jest ;  might  they 
have  a  real  import?  I  looked  around.  The  faintly-lighted 
apartment  had  all  the  qualifications  requisite  for  a  haunted 


36  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VtfLLER. 

chamber.  It  began  in  my  infected  imagination  to  assume 
strange  appearances.  The  old  portraits  turned  paler  and 
paler,  and  blacker  and  blacker;  the  streaks  of  light  and 
shadow  thrown  among  the  quaint  old  articles  of  furniture, 
gave  them  singular  shapes  and  characters.  There  was  a  huge 
dark  clothes-press  of  antique  form,  gorgeous  in  brass  and 
lustrous  with  wax,  that  began  to  grow  oppressive  io  me. 

Am  I  then,  thought  I,  indeed,  the  hero  of  the  haunted  room? 
Is  there  really  a  spell  laid  upon  me,  or  is  this  all  some  con 
trivance  of  mine  host,  to  raise  a  laugh  at  my  expense?  The 
idea  of  being  hag-ridden  by  my  own  fancy  all  night,  and  theu 
bantered  on  my  haggard  looks  the  next  day  was  intolerable ; 
but  the  very  idea  was  sufficient  to  produce  the  effect,  and  to 
render  me  still  more  nervous.  Pish,  said  I,  it  can  be  no  such 
thing.  How  could  my  worthy  host  imagine  that  I,  or  any 
man  would  be  so  worried  by  a  mere  picture?  It  is  my  own  dis 
eased  imagination  that  torments  me.  I  turned  in  my  bed,  and 
shifted  from  side  to  side,  to  try  to  fall  asleep ;  but  all  in  vain. 
When  one  cannot  get  asleep  by  lying  quiet,  it  is  seldom  that 
tossing  about  will  effect  the  purpose.  The  fire  gradually  went 
out  and  left  the  room  hi  darkness.  Still  I  had  the  idea  of  this 
inexplicable  countenance  gazing  and  keeping  watch  upon  me 
through  the  darkness.  Nay,  what  was  worse,  the  very  dark 
ness  seemed  to  give  it  additional  power,  and  to  multiply  its 
terrors.  It  was  like  having  an  unseen  enemy  hovering  about 
one  in  the  night.  Instead  of  having  one  picture  now  to  worry 
me,  I  had  a  hundred.  I  fancied  it  in  every  direction.  And 
there  it  is,  thought  I, — and  there,  and  there, — with  its  horrible 
and  mysterious  expression,  still  gazing  and  gazing  on  me.  No 
— if  I  must  suffer  this  strange  and  dismal  influence,  it  were 
better  face  a  single  foe,  than  thus  be  haunted  by  a  thousand 
images  of  it. 

Whoever  has  been  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  agitation  must 
know  that  the  longer  it  continues,  the  more  uncontrollable  it 
grows ;  the  very  air  of  the  chamber  seemed  at  length  infected 
by  the  baleful  presence  of  this  picture.  I  fancied  it  hovering 
over  me.  I  almost  felt  the  fearful  visage  from  the  wall  ap 
proaching  my  face, — it  seemed  breathing  upon  me.  This  is 
not  to  be  borne,  said  I,  at  length,  springing  out  of  bed.  I  can 
stand  this  no  longer.  I  shall  only  tumble  and  toss  about  here 
all  night ;  make  a  very  spectre  of  myself,  and  become  the  hero 
of  the  haunted  chamber  in  good  earnest.  Whatever  be  the 
consequence,  111  quit  this  cursed  room,  and  seek  a  night's  rest 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.       37 

elsewhere.  They  can  but  laugh  at  me  at  all  events,  and  they'll 
be  sure  to  have  the  laugh  upon  me  if  I  pass  a  sleepless  night 
and  show  them  a  haggard  and  wo-begone  visage  in  the  morn 
ing. 

All  this  was  half  muttered  to  myself,  as  I  hastily  slipped  on 
my  clothes ;  which  having  done,  I  groped  my  way  out  of  the 
room,  and  down-stairs  to  the  drawing-room.  Here,  after  tum 
bling  over  two  or  three  pieces  of  furniture,  I  made  out  to  reach 
a  sofa,  and  stretching  myself  upon  it  determined  to  bivouac 
there  for  the  night. 

The  moment  I  found  myself  out  of  the  neighborhood  of  that 
strange  picture,  it  seemed  as  if  the  charm  were  broken.  All  its 
influence  was  at  an  end.  I  felt  assured  that  it  was  confined  to 
its  own  dreary  chamber,  for  I  had,  with  a  sort  of  instinctive 
caution,  turned  the  key  when  I  closed  the  door.  I  soon  calmed 
down,  therefore,  into  a  state  of  tranquillity ;  from  that  into  a 
drowsiness,  and  finally  into  a  deep  sleep ;  out  of  which  I  did  not 
awake,  until  the  house  maid,  with  her  besom  and  her  matin 
song,  came  to  put  the  room  in  order.  She  stared  at  finding  me 
stretched  upon  the  sofa;  but  I  presume  circumstances  of  the 
kind  were  not  uncommon  after  hunting  dinners,  in  her  master's 
bachelor  establishment ;  for  she  went  on  with  her  song  and  her 
work,  and  took  no  farther  heed  of  me. 

I  had  an  unconquerable  repugnance  to  return  to  my  chamber ; 
so  I  found  my  way  to  the  butler's  quarters,  made  my  toilet  in 
the  best  way  circumstances  would  permit,  and  was  among  the 
first  to  appear  at  the  breakfast  table.  Our  breakfast  was  a 
substantial  fox-hunter's  repast,  and  the  company  were  gener 
ally  assembled  at  it.  When  ample  justice  had  been  done  to  the 
tea,  coffee,  cold  meats,  and  humming  ale,  for  all  these  were 
furnished  in  abundance,  according  to  the  tastes  of  the  different 
guests,  the  conversation  began  to  break  out,  with  all  the  liveli 
ness  and  freshness  of  morning  mirth. 

"But  who  is  the  hero  of  the  haunted  chamber? — Who  has 
seen  the  ghost  last  night?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  roll 
ing  his  lobster  eyes  about  the  table. 

The  question  set  every  tongue  in  motion ;  a  vast  deal  of  ban 
tering;  criticising  of  countenances;  of  mutual  accusation  and 
retort  took  place.  Some  had  drunk  deep,  and  some  were  un 
shaven,  so  that  there  were  suspicious  faces  enough  in  the  assem 
bly.  I  alone  could  not  enter  with  ease  and  vivacity  into  the 
joke.  I  felt  tongue-tied — embarrassed.  A  recollection  of  what 
I  had  seen  and  felt  the  preceding  night  still  haunted  my  mind. 


og  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  mysterious  picture  still  held  a  thrall  upon 
me.  I  thought  also  that  our  host's  eye  was  turned  on  me  with 
an  air  of  curiosity.  In  short,  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  the 
hero  of  the  night,  and  felt  as  if  every  one  might  read  it  in  my 
looks. 

The  jokes,  however,  passed  over,  and  no  suspicion  seemed  to 
attach  to  me.  I  was  just  congratulating  myself  on  my  escape, 
when  a  servant  came  in,  saying,  that  the  gentleman  who  ha  1 
slept  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room,  had  left  his  watch  under 
one  of  the  pillows.  My  repeater  was  in  his  hand. 

"What!"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  "did  any  gentle 
man  sleep  on  the  sofa?" 

"  Soho !  soho !  a  hare— a  hare !"  cried  the  old  gentleman  with 
the  flexible  nose. 

I  could  not  avoid  acknowledging  the  watch,  and  was  rising 
in  great  confusion,  when  a  boisterous  old  squire  who  sat  beside 
me,  exclaimed,  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  " 'Sblood,  lad  I 
thou'rt  the  man  as  has  seen  the  ghost  1" 

The  attention  of  the  company  was  immediately  turned  to  me ; 
if  my  face  had  been  pale  the  moment  before,  it  now  glowed 
almost  to  burning.  I  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  only  make  a 
grimace ;  and  found  all  the  muscles  of  my  face  twitching  at 
sixes  and  sevens,  and  totally  out  of  all  control. 

It  takes  but  little  to  raise  a  laugh  among  a  set  of  fox-hunters. 
There  was  a  world  of  merriment  and  joking  at  my  expense ; 
and  as  I  never  relished  a  joke  overmuch  when  it  was  at  my 
own  expense,  I  began  to  feel  a  little  nettled.  I  tried  to  look 
cool  and  calm  and  to  restrain  my  pique ;  but  the  coolness  and 
calmness  of  a  man  in  a  passion  are  confounded  treacherous. 

Gentlemen,  said  I,  with  a  slight  cocking  of  the  chin,  and  a 
bad  attempt  at  a  smile,  this  is  all  very  pleasant — ha !  ha ! — very 
pleasant — but  I'd  have  you  know  I  am  as  little  superstitious  as 
any  of  you — ha  1  ha ! — and  as  to  anything  like  timidity — you  may 
smile,  gentlemen — but  I  trust  there  is  no  one  here  means  to 
insinuate  that. As  to  a  room's  being  haunted,  I  repeat,  gen 
tlemen — (growing  a  little  warm  at  seeing  a  cursed  grin  breaking 
out  round  me) — as  to  a  room's  being  haunted,  I  have  as  little 
faith  in  such  silly  stories  as  any  one.  But,  since  you  put  the 
matter  home  to  me,  I  will  say  that  I  have  met  with  something 
in  my  room  strange  and  inexplicable  to  me — (a  shout  of  laugh 
ter).  Gentlemen,  I  am  serious — I  know  well  what  I  am  saying 
— I  am  calm,  gentlemen,  (striking  my  fist  upon  the  table) — by 
heaven  I  am  calm.  I  am  neither  trifling,  nor  do  I  wish  to  be 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.       39 

trifled  with — (the  laughter  of  the  company  suppressed  with 
ludicrous  attempts  at  gravity).  There  is  a  picture  in  the  room 
in  which  I  was  put  last  night,  that  has  had  an  effect  upon  me 
the  most  singular  and  incomprehensible. 

"A  picture  1"  said  the  old  gentleman  with  the  haunted  head. 
"  A  picture !"  cried  the  narrator  with  the  waggish  nose.  "A 
picture !  a  picture !"  echoed  several  voices.  Here  there  was  an 
ungovernable  peal  of  laughter. 

I  could  not  contain  myself.  I  started  up  from  my  seat — 
looked  round  on  the  company  with  fiery  indignation — thrust 
both  my  hands  into  my  pockets,  and  strode  up  to  one  of  the 
windows,  as  though  I  would  have  walked  through  it.  I  stopped 
short ;  looked  out  upon  the  landscape  without  distinguishing  a 
feature  of  it ;  and  felt  my  gorge  rising  almost  to  suffocation. 

Mine  host  saw  it  was  time  to  interfere.  He  had  maintained 
an  air  of  gravity  through  the  whole  of  the  scene,  and  now 
stepped  forth  as  if  to  shelter  me  from  the  overwhelming  merri 
ment  of  my  companions. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I  dislike  to  spoil  sport,  but  you  have 
had  your  laugh,  and  the  joke  of  the  haunted  chamber  has  been 
enjoyed.  I  must  now  take  the  part  of  my  guest.  I  must  not 
only  vindicate  him  from  your  pleasantries,  but  I  must  recon 
cile  him  to  himself,  for  I  suspect  he  is  a  little  out  of  humor  with 
his  own  feelings ;  and  above  all,  I  must  crave  his  pardon  for 
having  made  him  the  subject  of  a  kind  of  experiment. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,  there  is  something  strange  and  peculiar  in 
the  chamber  to  which  our  friend  was  shown  last  night.  There 
is  a  picture  which  possesses  a  singular  and  mysterious  influence ; 
and  with  which  there  is  connected  a  very  curious  story.  It  is 
a  picture  to  which  I  attach  a  value  from  a  variety  of  circum 
stances  ;  and  though  I  have  often  been  tempted  to  destroy  it 
from  the  odd  and  uncomfortable  sensations  it  produces  in  every 
one  that  beholds  it ;  yet  I  have  never  been  able  to  prevail  upon 
myself  to  make  the  sacrifice.  It  is  a  picture  I  never  like  to  look 
upon  myself ;  and  which  is  held  in  awe  by  all  my  servants.  I 
have,  therefore,  banished  it  to  a  room  but  rarely  used;  and 
should  have  had  it  covered  last  night,  had  not  the  nature  of  our 
conversation,  and  the  whimsical  talk  about  a  haunted  chamber 
tempted  me  to  let  it  remain,  by  way  of  experiment,  whether  a 
stranger,  totally  unacquainted  with  its  story,  would  be  affected 
by  it." 

Hhe  words  of  the  Baronet  had  turned  every  thought  into  a 
different  channel;  all  were  anxious  to  hear  the  story  of  the 


40  TALES  OP  A   TRA  VELLER. 

mysterious  picture ;  and  for  myself,  so  strongly  were  my  feel 
ings  interested,  that  I  forgot  to  feel  piqued  at  the  experiment 
which  my  host  had  made  upon  my  nerves,  and  joined  eagerly 
in  the  general  entreaty. 

As  the  morning  was  stormy,  and  precluded  all  egress,  my 
host  was  glad  of  any  means  of  entertaining  his  company ;  so 
drawing  his  arm-chair  beside  the  fire,  he  began — 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER. 

MANY  years  since,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  and  had  just 
left  Oxford,  I  was  sent  on  the  grand  tour  to  finish  my  educa 
tion.  I  believe  my  parents  had  tried  in  vain  to  inoculate  me 
with  wisdom ;  so  they  sent  me  to  mingle  with  society,  in  hopes 
I  might  take  it  the  natural  way.  Such,  at  least,  appears  to  be 
the  reason  for  which  nine-tenths  of  our  youngsters  are  sent 
abroad. 

In  the  course  of  my  tour  I  remained  some  time  at  Venice. 
The  romantic  character  of  the  place  delighted  me ;  I  was  very 
much  amused  by  the  air  of  adventure  and  intrigue  that  pre 
vailed  in  this  region  of  masks  and  gondolas ;  and  I  was  exceed 
ingly  smitten  by  a  pair  of  languishing  black  eyes,  that  played! 
upon  my  heart  from  under  an  Italian  mantle.  So  I  persuaded 
myself  that  I  was  lingering  at  Venice  to  study  men  and  man 
ners.  At  least  I  persuaded  my  friends  so,  and  that  answered 
all  my  purpose.  Indeed,  I  was  a  little  prone  to  be  struck  by~ 
peculiarities  in  character  and  conduct,  and  my  imaginations 
was  so  full  of  romantic  associations  with  Italy,  that  I  was; 
always  on  the  lookout  for  adventure. 

Every  thing  chimed  in  with  such  a  humor  in  this  old  mer 
maid  of  a  city.  My  suite  of  apartments  were  in  a  proud,  mel 
ancholy  palace  on  the  grand  canal,  formerly  the  residence  of  a 
Magnifico,  and  sumptuous  with  the  traces  of  decayed  grandeur. 
My  gondolier  was  one  of  the  shrewdest  of  his  class,  active, 
merry,  intelligent,  and,  like  his  brethren,  secret  as  the  grave ; 
that  is  to  say,  secret  to  all  the  world  except  his  master.  I  had 
not  had  him  a  week  before  he  put  me  behind  all  the  curtains  in 
Venice.  I  liked  the  silence  and  mystery  of  the  place,  and  when 
I  sometimes  saw  from  my  window  a  black  gondola  gliding 
mysteriously  along  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  with  nothing 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER.     41 

visible  but  its  little  glimmering  lantern,  I  would  jump  into  my 
own  zenduletto,  and  give  a  signal  for  pursuit.  But  I  am  run 
ning  away  from  my  subject  with  the  recollection  of  youthful 
follies,  said  the  Baronet,  checking  himself;  "let  me  come  to 
the  point. " 

Among  my  familiar  resorts  was  a  Cassino  under  the  Arcades 
on  one  side  of  the  grand  square  of  St.  Mark.  Here  I  used  fre 
quently  to  lounge  and  take  my  ice  on  those  warm  summer 
nights  when  in  Italy  every  body  lives  abroad  until  morning. 
I  was  seated  here  one  evening,  when  a  group  of  Italians  took 
seat  at  a  table  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  saloon.  Their  con 
versation  was  gay  and  animated,  and  carried  on  with  Italian 
vivacity  and  gesticulation. 

I  remarked  among  them  one  young  man,  however,  who 
appeared  to  take  no  share,  and  find  no  enjoyment  in  the  con 
versation  ;  though  he  seemed  to  force  himself  to  attend  to  it. 
He  was  tall  and  slender,  and  of  extremely  prepossessing  ap 
pearance.  His  features  were  fine,  though  emaciated.  He 
had  a  profusion  of  black  glossy  hair  that  curled  lightly  about  his 
heal,  and  contrasted  with  the  extreme  paleness  of  his  coun 
tenance.  His  brow  was  haggard;  deep  furrows  seemed  to 
have  been  ploughed  into  his  visage  by  care,  not  by  age,  for  he 
was  evidently  in  the  prime  of  youth.  His  eye  was  full  of  ex 
pression  and  fire,  but  wild  and  unsteady.  He  seemed  to  be 
tormented  by  some  strange  fancy  or  apprehension.  In  spite  of 
every  effort  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  conversation  of  his 
companions,  I  noticed  that  every  now  and  then  he  would  turn 
his  head  slowly  round,  give  a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  and 
then  withdraw  it  with  a  sudden  jerk,  as  if  something  painful 
had  met  his  eye.  This  was  repeated  at  intervals  of  about  a 
minute,  and  he  appeared  hardly  to  have  got  over  one  shock, 
before  I  saw  him  slowly  preparing  to  encounter  another. 

After  sitting  some  time  in  the  Cassino,  the  party  paid  for  the 
refreshments  they  had  taken,  and  departed.  The  young  man 
was  the  last  to  leave  the  saloon,  and  I  remarked  him  glancing 
behind  him  in  the  same  way,  just  as  he  passed  out  at  the  door. 
I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  rise  and  follow  him ;  for  I  was 
at  an  age  when  a  romantic  feeling  of  curiosity  is  easily  awak 
ened.  The  party  walked  slowly  down  the  Arcades,  talking  and 
laughing  as  they  went.  They  crossed  the  Piazzetta,  but  paused 
in  the  middle  of  it  to  enjoy  the  scene.  It  was  one  of  those 
moonlight  nights  so  brilliant  and  clear  in  the  pure  atmosphere 
of  Italy.  The  moon-beams  streamed  on  the  tall  tower  of  ^t 


42  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

Mark,  and  lighted  up  the  magnificent  front  and  swelling  dome* 
of  the  Cathedral.  The  party  expressed  their  delight  in  anima 
ted  terms.  I  kept  my  eye  upon  the  young  man.  He  alone 
seemed  abstracted  and  self-occupied.  I  noticed  the  same  sin 
gular,  and,  as  it  were,  furtive  glance  over  the  shoulder  that  had 
attracted  my  attention  in  the  Cassino.  The  party  moved  on, 
and  I  followed ;  they  passed  along  the  walks  called  the  Broglio; 
turned  the  corner  of  the  Ducal  palace,  and  getting  into  a  gon 
dola,  glided  swiftly  away. 

The  countenance  and  conduct  of  this  young  man  dwelt  upon 
my  mind.  There  was  something  in  his  appearance  that  inter 
ested  me  exceedingly.  I  met  him  a  day  or  two  after  in  a 
gallery  of  paintings.  He  was  evidently  a  connoisseur,  for  he 
always  singled  out  the  most  masterly  productions,  and  the  few 
remarks  drawn  from  him  by  his  companions  showed  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  art.  His  own  taste,  however, 
ran  on  singular  extremes.  On  Salvator  Rosa  in  his  most  sav 
age  and  solitary  scenes;  on  Raphael,  Titian,  and  Corregio  in 
their  softest  delineations  of  female  beauty.  On  these  he  would 
occasionally  gaze  with  transient  enthusiasm.  But  this  seemed 
only  a  momentary  forgetfulness.  Still  would  recur  that  cau 
tious  glance  behind,  and  always  quickly  withdrawn,  as  though 
something  terrible  had  met  his  view. 

I  encountered  him  frequently  afterwards.  At  the  theatre, 
at  balls,  at  concerts ;  at  the  promenades  in  the  gardens  of  San 
Georgio;  at  the  grotesque  exhibitions  in  the  square  of  St. 
Mark;  among  the  throng  of  merchants  on  the  Exchange  by 
the  Rialto.  He  seemed,  in  fact,  to  seek  crowds ;  to  hunt  after 
bustle  and  amusement ;  yet  never  to  take  any  interest  in  either 
the  business  or  gayety  of  the  scene.  Ever  an  air  of  painful 
thought,  of  wretched  abstraction;  and  ever  that  strange  and 
recurring  movement,  of  glancing  fearfully  over  the  shoulder. 
I  did  not  know  at  first  but  this  might  be  caused  by  appre 
hension  of  arrest;  or  perhaps  from  dread  of  assassination. 
But,  if  so,  why  should  he  go  thus  continually  abroad;  why 
expose  himself  at  all  times  and  in  all  places? 

I  became  anxious  to  know  this  stranger.  I  was  drawn  to 
him  by  that  romantic  sympathy  that  sometimes  draws  young 
men  towards  each  other.  His  melancholy  threw  a  charm  about 
him  in  my  eyes,  which  was  no  doubt  heightened  by  the  touch 
ing  expression  of  his  countenance,  and  the  manly  graces  of  his 
person;  for  manly  beauty  has  its  effect  even  upon  man.  I  had 
an  Englishman's  habitual  diffidence  and  awkwardness  of  ad- 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER.      43 

dress  to  contend  with ;  but  I  subdued  it,  and  from  frequently 
meeting  him  in  the  Cassino,  gradually  edged  myself  into  his 
acquaintance.  I  had  no  reserve  on  his  part  to  contend  with. 
He  seemed  on  the  contrary  to  court  society ;  and  in  fact  to  seek 
anything  rather  than  be  alone. 

When  he  found  I  really  took  an  interest  in  him  he  threw  him 
self  entirely  upon  my  friendship.  He  clung  to  me  like  a  drown 
ing  man.  He  would  walk  with  me  for  hours  up  and  down  tbe 
place  of  St.  Mark — or  he  would  sit  until  night  was  far  advanced 
in  my  apartment ;  he  took  rooms  under  the  same  roof  with  me ; 
and  his  constant  request  was,  that  I  would  permit  him,  when 
it  did  not  incommode  me,  to  sit  by  me  in  my  saloon.  It  was 
not  that  he  seemed  to  take  a  particular  delight  in  my  conversa 
tion  ;  but  rather  that  he  craved  the  vicinity  of  a  human  being ; 
and  above  all,  of  a  being  that  sympathized  with  him.  ' '  I  have 
often  heard,"  said  he,  "  of  the  sincerity  of  Englishmen — thank 
God  I  have  one  at  length  for  a  friend  1" 

Yet  he  never  seemed  disposed  to  avail  himself  of  my  sympa 
thy  other  than  by  mere  companionship.  He  never  sought  to 
unbosom  himself  to  me ;  there  appeared  to  be  a  settled  corrod 
ing  anguish  in  his  bosom  that  neither  could  be  soothed  "by 
silence  nor  by  speaking."  A  devouring  melancholy  preyed 
upon  his  heart,  and  seemed  to  be  drying  up  the  very  blood  in 
his  veins.  It  was  not  a  soft  melancholy — the  disease  of  the 
affections;  but  a  parching,  withering  agony.  I  could  see  at 
times  that  his  mouth  was  dry  and  feverish ;  he  almost  panted 
rather  than  breathed ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot ;  his  cheeks  pale 
and  livid;  with  now  and  then  faint  streaks  athwart  them — 
baleful  gleams  of  the  fire  that  was  consuming  his  heart.  As  my 
arm  was  within  his,  I  felt  him  press  it  at  times  with  a  convul 
sive  motion  to  his  side ;  his  hands  would  clinch  themselves  in 
voluntarily,  and  a  kind  of  shudder  would  run  through  his 
frame.  I  reasoned  with  him  about  his  melancholy,  and  sought 
to  draw  from  him  the  cause — he  shrunk  from  all  confiding. 
"  Do  not  seek  to  know  it,"  said  he,  "you  could  not  relieve  it 
if  you  knew  it ;  you  would  not  even  seek  to  relieve  it — on  the 
contrary,  I  should  lose  your  sympathy;  and  that,"  said  he, 
pressing  my  hand  convulsively,  "that  I  feel  has  become  too 
dear  to  me  to  risk. " 

I  endeavored  to  awaken  hope  within  him.  He  was  young ; 
lif e  had  a  thousand  pleasures  in  store  for  him ;  there  is  a  healthy 
reaction  in  the  youthful  heart ;  it  medicines  its  own  wounds— 
*'  Come,  come,"  said  I,  "there  is  no  grief  so  great  that  youth 


44  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

cannot  outgrow  it." — "No!  no!"  said  he,  clinching  his  teeth, 
and  striking  repeatedly,  with  the  energy  of  despair,  upon  his 
bosom — "It  is  here — here — deep-rooted;  draining  my  heart's 
blood.  It  grows  and  grows,  while  my  heart  withers  and  with 
ers  !  I  have  a  dreadful  monitor  that  gives  me  no  repose— that 
follows  me  step  by  step ;  and  will  follow  me  step  by  step,  until 
it  pushes  me  into  my  grave !" 

As  he  said  this  he  gave  hi  voluntarily  one  of  those  fearful 
glances  over  his  shoulder,  and  shrunk  back  with  more  than 
usual  horror.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  allude  to 
this  movement,  which  I  supposed  to  be  some  mere  malady  of 
the  nerves.  The  moment  I  mentioned  it  his  face  became  crim 
soned  and  convulsed — he  grasped  me  by  both  hands :  ' '  For  God's 
sake,"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  piercing  agony  of  voice — "never 
allude  to  that  again ;  let  us  avoid  this  subject,  my  friend :  you 
cannot  relieve  me,  indeed  you  cannot  relieve  me ;  but  you  may 
add  to  the  torments  I  suffer : — at  some  future  day  you  shall 
know  all." 

I  never  resumed  the  subject ;  for  however  much  my  curiosity 
might  be  aroused,  I  felt  too  true  a  compassion  for  his  suffer 
ings  to  increase  them  by  my  intrusion.  I  sought  various  ways 
to  divert  his  mind,  and  to  arouse  him  from  the  constant  medi 
tations  in  which  he  was  plunged.  He  saw  my  efforts,  and  sec 
onded  them  as  far  as  in  his  power,  for  there  was  nothing  moody 
or  wayward  in  his  nature ;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  some 
thing  frank,  generous,  unassuming,  in  his  whole  deportment. 
Ah"  the  sentiments  that  he  uttered  were  noble  and  lofty.  He 
claimed  no  indulgence;  he  asked  no  toleration.  He  seemed 
content  to  carry  his  load  of  misery  in  silence,  and  only  sought 
to  carry  it  by  my  side.  There  was  a  mute  beseeching  manner 
about  him,  as  if  he  craved  companionship  as  a  charitable  boon ; 
and  a  tacit  thankfulness  in  his  looks,  as  if  he  felt  grateful  to 
me  for  not  repulsing  him. 

I  felt  this  melancholy  to  be  infectious.  It  stole  over  my 
spirits;  interfered  with  all  my  gay  pursuits,  and  gradually 
saddened  my  life ;  yet  I  could  not  prevail  upon  myself  to  shake 
off  a  being  who  seemed  to  hang  upon  me  for  support.  In  truth, 
the  generous  traits  of  character  that  beamed  through  all  this 
gloom  had  penetrated  to  my  heart.  His  bounty  was  lavish  and 
open-handed.  His  charity  melting  and  spontaneous.  Not  con 
fined  to  mere  donations,  which  often  humiliate  as  much  as  they 
relieve.  The  tone  of  his  voice,  the  beam  of  his  eye,  enhanced 
every  gift,  and  surprised  the  poor  suppliant  with  that  rarest 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER.      45 

and  sweetest  of  charities,  the  charity  not  merely  of  the  hand, 
but  of  the  heart.  Indeed,  his  liberality  seemed  to  have  some 
thing  in  it  of  self-abasement  and  expiation.  He  humbled  him 
self,  in  a  manner,  before  the  mendicant.  "What  right  have  I 
to  ease  and  affluence,"  would  he  murmur  to  himself,  "when 
innocence  wanders  in  misery  and  rags?" 

The  Carnival  time  arrived.  I  had  hoped  that  the  gay  scenes 
which  then  presented  themselves  might  have  some  cheering 
effect.  I  mingled  with  hira  in  the  motley  throng  that  crowded 
the  place  of  St.  Mark.  We  frequented  operas,  masquerades, 
balls.  All  in  vain.  The  evil  kept  growing  on  him ;  he  became 
more  and  more  haggard  and  agitated.  Often,  after  we  had  re 
turned  from  one  of  these  scenes  of  revelry,  I  have  entered  his 
room,  and  found  him  lying  on  his  face  on  the  sofa :  his  hands 
clinched  in  his  fine  hair,  and  his  whole  countenance  bearing 
traces  of  the  convulsions  of  his  mind. 

The  Carnival  passed  away;  the  season  of  Lent  succeeded; 
Passion  week  arrived.  We  attended  one  evening  a  solemn  ser 
vice  in  one  of  the  churches ;  in  the  course  of  which  a  grand 
piece  of  vocal  and  instrumental  music  was  performed  relating 
to  the  death  of  our  Saviour. 

I  had  remarked  that  he  was  always  powerf'uly  affected  by 
music ;  on  this  occasion  he  was  so  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
As  the  peeling  notes  swelled  through  the  lofty  a  isles,  he  seemed 
to  kindle  up  with  fervor.  His  eyes  rolled  upwards,  until  noth 
ing  but  the  whites  were  visible;  his  hands  were  clasped  to 
gether,  until  the  fingers  were  deeply  imprinted  in  the  flesh. 
When  the  music  expressed  the  dying  agony,  his  face  gradually 
sunk  upon  his  knees ;  and  at  the  touching  words  resounding 
through  the  church,  "Jesu  mori,"  sobs  burst  from  him  uncon 
trolled.  I  had  never  seen  him  weep  before ;  his  had  always 
been  agony  rather  than  sorrow.  I  augured  well,  from  the  cir 
cumstance.  I  let  him  weep  on  uninterrupted.  When  the  ser 
vice  was  ended  we  left  the  church.  He  hung  on  my  arm  as  we 
walked  homewards,  with  something  of  a  softer  and  more  sub 
dued  manner ;  instead  of  that  nervous  agitation  I  had  been  ac 
customed  to  witness.  He  alluded  to  the  service  we  had  heard. 
"  Music,"  said  he,  "  is  indeed  the  voice  of  heaven;  never  before 
have  I  felt  more  impressed  by  the  story  of  the  atonement  of 
our  Saviour.  Yes,  my  friend, "  said  he,  clasping  his  hands  with 
a  kind  of  transport,  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth." 

We  parted  for  the  night.  His  room  was  not  far  from  mine, 
and  I  heard  him  for  some  time  busied  in  it.  I  fell  asleep,  but 


46  TALES  OP  A   TEA  VELLER. 

was  awakened  before  daylight.  The  young  man  stood  by  my 
bed-side,  dressed  for  travelling.  He  held  a  sealed  packet  and 
a  large  parcel  in  his  hand,  which  he  laid  on  the  table.  "  Fare 
well,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "I  am  about  to  set  forth  on  a  long 
journey ;  but,  before  I  go,  I  leave  with  you  these  remembrances. 
In  this  packet  you  will  find  the  particulars  of  my  story. 
When  you  read  them,  I  shall  be  far  away ;  do  not  remember 
me  with  aversion.  You  have  been,  indeed,  a  friend  to  me. 
You  have  poured  oil  into  a  broken  heart, — but  you  could  not 
heal  it. — Farewell — let  me  kiss  your  hand — I  am  unworthy  to 
embrace  you."  He  sunk  on  his  knees,  seized  my  hand  in 
despite  of  my  efforts  to  the  contrary,  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 
I  was  so  surprised  by  all  this  scene  that  I  had  not  been  able  to 
say  a  word. 

But  we  shall  meet  again,  said  I,  hastily,  as  I  saw  him  hurry 
ing  towards  the  door. 

' '  Never — never  in  this  world !"  said  he,  solemnly.  He  sprang 
once  more  to  my  bed-side — seized  my  hand,  pressed  it  to  his 
heart  and  to  his  lips,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Here  the  Baronet  paused.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and 
sat  looking  upon  the  floor  and  drumming  with  his  fingers  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"And  did  this  mysterious  personage  return?"  said  the 
inquisitive  gentleman.  "Never!"  replied  the  Baronet,  with  a 
pensive  shake  of  the  head:  "  I  never  saw  him  again."  "  And 
pray  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  picture?"  inquired  the  old 
gentleman  with  the  nose — " True !"  said  the  questioner — "Is  it 
the  portrait  of  this  crack-brained  Italian?"  "No!"  said  the 
Baronet  drily,  not  half  liking  the  appellation  given  to  his  hero ; 
' '  but  this  picture  was  inclosed  in  the  parcel  he  left  with  me.  The 
sealed  packet  contained  its  explanation.  There  was  a  request 
on  the  outside  that  I  would  not  open  it  until  six  months  had 
elapsed.  I  kept  my  promise,  in  spite  of  my  curiosity.  I  have 
a  translation  of  it  by  me,  and  had  meant  to  read  it,  by  way  of 
accounting  for  the  mystery  of  the  chamber,  but  I  fear  I  have 
already  detained  the  company  too  long." 

Here  there  was  a  general  wish  expressed  to  have  the  manu 
script  read ;  particularly  on  the  part  of  the  inquisitive  gentle 
man.  So  the  worthy  Baronet  drew  out  a  fairly  written 
manuscript,  and  \viping  his  spectacles,  read  aloud  the  following 
story: 


THE  bTORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN.  47 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN. 

I  WAS  born  at  Naples.  My  parents,  though  of  noble  rank, 
were  limited  in  fortune,  or  rather  my  father  was  ostentatious 
beyond  his  means,  and  expended  so  much  in  his  palace,  his 
equipage,  and  his  retinue,  that  he  was  continually  straitened 
in  his  pecuniary  circumstances.  I  was  a  younger  son,  and 
looked  upon  with  indifference  by  my  father,  who,  from  a  prin 
ciple  of  family  pride,  wished  to  leave  all  his  property  to  my 
elder  brother. 

I  showed,  when  quite  a  child,  an  extreme  sensibility.  Every 
tking  affected  me  violently.  While  yet  an  infant  in  my 
mother's  arms,  and  before  I  had  learnt  to  talk,  I  could  be 
wrought  upon  to  a  wonderful  degree  of  anguish  or  delight  by 
the  power  of  music.  As  I  grew  older  my  feelings  remained 
equally  acute,  and  I  was  easily  transported  into  paroxysms  of 
pleasure  or  rage.  It  was  the  amusement  of  my  relatives  and 
of  the  domestics  to  play  upon  this  irritable  temperament.  I 
was  moved  to  tears,  tickled  to  laughter,  provoked  to  fury, 
for  the  entertainment  of  company,  who  were  amused  by 
such  a  tempest  of  mighty  passion  in  a  pigmy  frame.  They 
little  thought,  or  perhaps  little  heeded  the  dangerous  sensibili 
ties  they  were  fostering.  I  thus  became  a  little  creature  of 
passion,  before  reason  was  developed.  I  a  a  short  tune  I  grew 
too  old  to  be  a  plaything,  and  then  I  became  a  torment.  The 
tricks  and  passions  I  had  been  teased  into  became  irksome,  and 
I  was  disliked  by  my  teachers  for  the  very  lessons  they  had 
taught  me. 

My  mother  died ;  and  my  power  as  a  spoiled  child  was  at 
an  end.  There  was  no  longer  any  necessity  to  humor  or 
tolerate  me,  for  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  it,  as  I  was 
no  favorite  of  my  father.  I  therefore  experienced  the  fate  of  a 
spoiled  child  in  such  situation,  and  was  neglected  or  noticed 
only  to  be  crossed  and  contradicted.  Such  was  the  early  treat 
ment  of  a  heart,  which,  if  I  am  judge  of  it  at  all,  was  naturally 
disposed  to  the  extremes  of  tenderness  and  affection. 

My  father,  as  I  have  already  said,  never  liked  me — in  fact, 
he  never  understood  me;  he  looked  upon  me  as  wilful  and 
wayward,  as  deficient  in  natural  affection : — it  was  the  stateli- 
ness  of  his  own  manner ;  the  loftiness  and  grandeur  of  his  own 
look  that  had  repelled  me  from  his  arms.  I  always  pictured 


48  TALES  Off  A   TRA  VELLER. 

him  to  myself  as  I  had  seen  him  clad  in  his  senatorial  robes, 
rustling  with  pomp  and  pride.  The  magnificence  of  his  person 
had  daunted  my  strong  imagination.  I  could  never  approach 
him  with  the  confiding  affection  of  a  child. 

My  father's  feelings  were  wrapped  up  in  my  elder  brother. 
He  was  to  be  the  inheritor  of  the  family  title  and  the  family 
dignity,  and  every  tiling  was  sacrificed  to  him  —I,  as  well  as 
every  thing  else.  It  was  determined  to  devote  me  to  the  church, 
that  so  my  humors  and  myself  might  be  removed  out  of  the 
way,  either  of  tasking  my  father's  time  and  trouble,  or  inter 
fering  with  the  interests  of  my  brother.  At  an  early  age, 
therefore,  before  my  mind  had  dawned  upon  the  world  and  its 
delights,  or  known  any  thing  of  it  beyond  the  precincts  of  my 
father's  palace,  I  was  sent  to  a  convent,  the  superior  of  which 
was  my  uncle,  and  was  confided  entirely  to  his  care. 

My  uncle  was  a  man  totally  estranged  from  the  world ;  he 
had  never  relished,  for  he  had  never  tasted  its  pleasures ;  and 
he  deemed  rigid  self-denial  as  the  great  basis  of  Christian  virtue. 
He  considered  every  one's  temperament  like  his  own ;  or  at 
least  he  made  them  conform  to  it.  His  character  and  habits 
had  an  influence  over  the  fraternity  of  which  he  was  superior. 
A  more  gloomy,  saturnine  set  of  beings  were  never  assembled 
together.  The  convent,  too,  was  calculated  to  awaken  sad  and 
solitary  thoughts.  It  was  situated  in  a  gloomy  gorge  of  those 
mountains  away  south  of  Vesuvius.  All  distant  views  were 
shut  out  by  sterile  volcanic  heights.  A  mountain  stream  raved 
beneath  its  walls,  and  eagles  screamed  about  its  turrets. 

I  had  been  sent  to  this  place  at  so  tender  an  age  as  soon  to 
lose  all  distinct  recollection  of  the  scenes  I  had  left  behind. 
As  my  mind  expanded,  therefore,  it  formed  its  idea  of  the 
world  from  the  convent  and  its  vicinity,  and  a  dreary  world  it 
appeared  to  me.  An  early  tinge  of  melancholy  was  thus 
infused  into  my  character ;  and  the  dismal  stories  of  the  monks, 
about  devils  and  evil  spirits,  with  which  they  affrighted  my 
young  imagination,  gave  me  a  tendency  to  superstition, 
which  I  could  never  effectually  shake  off.  They  took  the  same 
delight  to  work  upon  my  ardent  feelings  that  had  been  so  mis 
chievously  exercised  by  my  father's  household. 

I  can  recollect  the  horrors  with  which  they  fed  my  heated 
fancy  during  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius.  We  were  distant  from 
that  volcano,  with  mountains  between  us;  but  its  convulsive 
throes  shook  the  solid  foundations  of  nature.  Earthquakes 
threatened  to  topple  down  our  convent  towers.  A  lurid,  bale- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  49 

ful  light  hung  in  the  heavens  at  night,  and  showers  of  ashes, 
borne  by  the  wind,  fell  in  our  narrow  valley.  The  monks 
talked  of  the  earth  being  honey-combed  beneath  us ;  of  streams 
of  molten  lava  raging  through  its  veins ;  of  caverns  of  sulphur 
ous  flames  roaring  in  the  centre,  the  abodes  of  demons  and  the 
damned ;  of  fiery  gulfs  ready  to  yawn  beneath  our  feet.  All 
Miese  tales  were  told  to  the  doleful  accompaniment  of  the 
mountain's  thunders,  whose  low  bellowing  made  the  walls  of 
our  convent  vibrate. 

One  of  the  monks  had  been  a  painter,  but  had  retired  from 
the  world,  and  embraced  this  dismal  life  in  expiation  of  some 
crime.  He  was  a  melancholy  man,  who  pursued  his  art  in  the 
solitude  of  his  cell,  but  made  it  a  source  of  penance  to  him. 
His  employment  was  to  portray,  either  on  canvas  or  in  waxen 
models,  the  human  face  and  human  form,  in  the  agonies  of 
death  and  in  all  the  stages  of  dissolution  and  decay.  The  fear 
ful  mysteries  of  the  charnel  house  were  unfolded  in  his  labors — 

the  loathsome  banquet  of  the  beetle  and  the  worm. 1  turn 

with  shuddering  even  from  the  recollection  of  his  works.  Yet, 
at  that  time,  my  strong,  but  ill-directed  imagination  seized 
with  ardor  upon  his  instructions  in  his  art.  Any  thing  was  a 
variety  from  "the  dry  studies  and  monotonous  duties  of  the 
cloister.  In  a  little  while  I  became  expert  with  my  pencil,  and 
my  gloomy  productions  were  thought  worthy  of  decorating 
some  of  the  altars  of  the  chapel. 

In  this  dismal  way  was  a  creature  of  feeling  and  fancy 
brought  up.  Every  thing  genial  and  amiable  in  my  nature  was 
repressed  and  nothing  brought  out  but  what  was  unprofitable 
and  ungracious.  I  was  ardent  in  my  temperament;  quick, 
mercurial,  impetuous,  formed  to  be  a  creature  all  love  and 
adoration ;  but  a  leaden  hand  was  laid  on  all  my  finer  qualities. 
I  was  taught  nothing  but  fear  and  hatred.  I  hated  my  uncle, 
I  hated  the  monks,  I  hated  the  convent  in  which  I  was  im 
mured.  I  hated  the  world,  and  I  almost  hated  myself,  for 
being,  as  I  supposed,  so  hating  and  hateful  an  animal. 

When  I  had  nearly  attained  the  age  of  sixteen,  I  was 
suffered,  on  one  occasion,  to  accompany  one  of  the  brethren 
on  a  mission  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  We  soon  left  be 
hind  us  the  gloomy  valley  in  which  I  had  been  pent  up  for  so 
many  years,  and  after  a  short  journey  among  the  mountains, 
emerged  upon  the  voluptuous  landscape  that  spreads  itself 
about  the  Bay  of  Naples.  Heavens !  how  transported  was  I, 
when  I  stretched  my  gaze  over  a  vast  reach  of  delicious  sunny 


60  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

country,  gay  with  groves  and  vineyards ;  with  Vesuvius  roar 
ing  its  forked  summit  to  my  right ;  the  blue  Mediterranean  to 
my  left,  with  its  enchanting  coast,  studded  with  shining  towns 
and  sumptuous  villas;  and  Naples,  my  native  Naples,  gleam 
ing  far,  far  in  the  distance. 

Good  God !  was  this  the  lovely  world  from  which  I  had  been 
excluded !  I  had  reached  that  age  when  the  sensibilities  are 
in  all  their  bloom  and  freshness.  Mine  had  been  checked  and 
chilled.  They  now  burst  forth  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
retarded  spring.  My  heart,  hitherto  unnaturally  shrunk  up, 
expanded  into  a  riot  of  vague,  but  delicious  emotions.  The 
beauty  of  nature  intoxicated,  bewildered  me.  The  song  of  the 
peasants ;  their  cheerful  looks ;  their  happy  avocations ;  the  pic 
turesque  gayety  of  their  dresses;  their  rustic  music;  their 
dances ;  all  broke  upon  me  like  witchcraft.  My  soul  responded 
to  the  music ;  my  heart  danced  in  my  bosom.  All  the  men 
appeared  amiable,  all  the  women  lovely. 

I  returned  to  the  convent,  that  is  to  say,  my  body  returned 
but  my  heart  and  soul  never  entered  there  again.  I  could  not 
forget  this  glimpse  of  a  beautiful  and  a  happy  world ;  a  world 
so  suited  to  my  natural  character.  I  had  felt  so  happy  while 
in  it ;  so  different  a  being  from  what  I  felt  myself  while  in  the 
convent — that  tomb  of  the  living.  I  contrasted  the  counte 
nances  of  the  beings  I  had  seen,  full  of  fire  and  freshness  and 
enjoyment,  with  the  pallid,  leaden,  lack-lustre  visages  of  the 
monks ;  the  music  of  the  dance,  with  the  droning  chant  of  the 
chapel.  I  had  before  found  the  exercises  of  the  cloister  weari 
some  ;  they  now  became  intolerable.  The  dull  round  of  duties 
wore  away  my  spirit ;  my  nerves  became  irritated  by  the  fret 
ful  tinkling  of  the  convent  bell;  evermore  dinging  among 
the  mountain  echoes ;  evermore  calling  me  from  my  repose  at 
night,  my  pencil  by  day,  to  attend  to  some  tedious  and 
mechanical  ceremony  of  devotion. 

I  was  not  of  a  nature  to  meditate  long,  without  putting  my 
thoughts  into  action.  My  spirit  had  been  suddenly  aroused, 
and  was  now  all  awake  within  me.  I  watched  my  opportunity, 
fled  from  the  convent,  and  made  my  way  on  foot  to  Naples. 
As  I  entered  its  gay  and  crowded  streets,  and  beheld  the 
variety  and  stir  of  life  around  me,  the  luxury  of  palaces,  the 
splendor  of  equipages,  and  the  pantomimic  animation  of  the 
motley  populace,  I  seemed  as  if  awakened  to  a  world  of 
enchantment,  and  solemnly  vowed  that  nothing  should  force 
Hie  back  to  the  monotony  of  the  cloister. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  51 

I  had  to  inquire  my  way  to  my  father's  palace,  for  I  had 
been  so  young  on  leaving  it,  that  I  knew  not  its  situation.  I 
found  some  difficulty  in  getting  admitted  to  my  father's  pres 
ence,  for  the  domestics  scarcely  knew  that  there  was  such  a 
being  as  myself  in  existence,  and  my  monastic  dress  did  not 
operate  in  my  favor.  Even  my  father  entertained  no  recollec 
tion  of  my  person.  I  told  him  my  name,  threw  myself  at  his 
feet,  implored  his  forgiveness,  and  entreated  that  I  might  not 
be  sent  back  to  the  convent. 

He  received  me  with  the  condescension  of  a  patron  rather 
than  the  kindness  of  a  parent.  He  listened  patiently,  but 
coldly,  to  my  tale  of  monastic  grievances  and  disgusts,  and 
promised  to  think  what  else  could  be  done  for  me.  This  cold 
ness  blighted  and  drove  back  all  the  frank  affection  of  my 
nature  that  was  ready  to  spring  forth  at  the  least  warmth  of 
parental  kindness.  All  my  early  feelings  towards  my  father 
revived ;  I  again  looked  up  to  him  as  the  stately  magnificent 
being  that  had  daunted  my  childish  imagination,  and  felt  as  if 
I  had  no  pretensions  to  his  sympathies.  My  brother  engrossed 
all  his  care  and  love ;  he  inherited  his  nature,  and  carried  him 
self  towards  me  with  a  protecting  rather  than  a  fraternal  air. 
It  wounded  my  pride,  which  was  great.  I  could  brook  conde 
scension  from  my  father,  for  I  looked  up  to  him  with  awe  as  a 
superior  being,  but  I  could  not  brook  patronage  from  a  brother, 
who,  I  felt,  was  intellectually  my  inferior.  The  servants  per 
ceived  that  I  was  an  unwelcome  intruder  in  the  paternal  man 
sion,  and,  menial- like,  they  treated  me  with  neglect.  Thus 
baffled  at  every  point ;  my  affections  outraged  wherever  they 
would  attach  themselves,  I  became  sullen,  silent,  and  despon 
dent.  My  feelings  driven  back  upon  myself,  entered  and 
preyed  upon  my  own  heart.  I  remained  for  some  days  an 
unwelcome  guest  rather  than  a  restored  son  in  my  father's 
house.  I  was  doomed  never  to  be  properly  known  there.  I 
was  made,  by  wrong  treatment,  strange  even  to  myself;  and 
they  judged  of  me  from  my  strangeness. 

I  was  startled  one  day  at  the  sight  of  one  of  the  monks  of  my 
convent,  gliding  out  of  my  father's  room.  He  saw  me,  but 
pretended  not  to  notice  me ;  and  this  very  hypocrisy  made  me 
suspect  something.  I  had  become  sore  and  susceptible  in  my 
feelings ;  every  thing  inflicted  a  wound  on  them.  In  this  state 
of  mind  I  was  treated  with  marked  disrespect  by  a  pampered 
minion,  the  favorite  servant  of  my  father.  All  the  pride  and 


52  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

passion  of  my  nature  rose  in  an  instant,  and  I  struck  him  to 
the  earth. 

My  father  was  passing  by;  he  stopped  not  to  inquire  the 
reason,  nor  indeed  could  he  read  the  long  course  of  mental  suf 
ferings  which  were  the  real  cause.  He  rebuked  me  with  anger 
and  scorn ;  he  summoned  all  the  haughtiness  of  his  nature,  and 
grandeur  of  his  look,  to  give  weight  to  the  contumely  with 
which  he  treated  me.  I  felt  I  had  not  deserved  it — I  felt  that  I 
was  not  appreciated — I  felt  that  I  had  that  within  me  which 
merited  better  treatment ;  my  heart  swelled  against  a  father's 
injustice.  I  broke  through  my  habitual  awe  of  him.  I  replied 
to  him  with  impatience ;  my  hot  spirit  flushed  in  my  cheek  and 
kindled  in  my  eye,  but  my  sensitive  heart  swelled  as  quickly, 
and  before  I  had  half  vented  my  passion  I  felt  it  suffocated  and 
quenched  in  my  tears.  My  father  was  astonished  and  incensed 
at  this  turning  of  the  worm,  and  ordered  me  to  my  chamber. 
I  retired  in  silence,  choking  with  contending  emotions. 

I  had  not  been  long  there  when  I  overheard  voices  in  an  ad 
joining  apartment.  It  was  a  consultation  between  my  father 
and  the  monk,  about  the  means  of  getting  me  back  quietly  to 
the  convent.  My  resolution  was  taken.  I  had  no  longer  a 
home  nor  a  father.  That  very  night  I  left  the  paternal  roof. 
I  got  on  board  a  vessel  about  making  sail  from  the  harbor,  and 
abandoned  myself  to  the  wide  world.  No  matter  to  what  port 
she  steered ;  any  part  of  so  beautiful  a  world  was  better  than 
my  convent.  No  matter  where  I  was  cast  by  fortune;  any 
place  would  be  more  a  home  to  me  than  the  home  I  had  left 
behind.  The  vessel  was  bound  to  Genoa.  We  arrived  there 
after  a  voyage  of  a  few  days. 

As  I  entered  the  harbor,  between  the  moles  which  embrace  it, 
and  beheld  the  amphitheatre  of  palaces  and  churches  and 
splendid  gardens,  rising  one  above  another,  I  felt  at  once  its 
title  to  the  appellation  of  Genoa  the  Superb.  I  landed  on  the 
mole  an  utter  stranger,  without  knowing  what  to  do,  or  whither 
to  direct  my  steps.  No  matter;  I  was  released  from  the  thral 
dom  of  the  convent  and  the  humiliations  of  home!  When  I 
traversed  the  Strada  Balbi  and  the  Strada  Nuova,  those  streets 
of  palaces,  and  gazed  at  the  wonders  of  architecture  around 
me ;  when  I  wandered  at  close  of  day,  amid  a  gay  throng  of 
the  brilliant  and  the  beautiful,  through  the  green  alleys  of  the 
Aqua  Verdi,  or  among  the  colonnades  and  terraces  of  the  mag 
nificent  Doria  Gardens,  I  thought  it  impossible  to  be  ever  other 
wise  than  happy  in  Genoa. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN.  53 

A  few  days  sufficed  to  show  me  my  mistake.  My  scanty 
purse  was  exhausted,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ex 
perienced  the  sordid  distress  of  penury.  I  had  never  known 
the  want  of  money,  and  had  never  adverted  to  the  possibility 
of  such  an  evil.  I  was  ignorant  of  the  world  and  all  its  ways ; 
and  when  first  the  idea  of  destitution  came  over  my  mind  its 
effect  was  withering.  I  was  wandering  pensively  through  the 
streets  which  no  longer  delighted  my  eyes,  when  chance  led  my 
steps  into  the  magnificent  church  of  the  Annunciata. 

A  celebrated  painter  of  the  day  was  at  that  moment  superin 
tending  the  placing  of  one  of  his  pictures  over  an  altar.  The 
proficiency  which  I  had  acquired  in  his  art  during  my  residence 
in  the  convent  had  made  me  an  enthusiastic  amateur.  I  was 
struck,  at  the  first  glance,  with  the  painting.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  Madonna.  So  innocent,  so  lovely,  such  a  divine  expression 
of  maternal  tenderness !  I  lost  for  the  moment  all  recollection 
of  myself  in  the  enthusiasm  of  my  art.  I  clasped  my  hands 
together,  and  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  delight.  The  painter 
perceived  my  emotion.  He  was  flattered  and  gratified  by  it. 
My  air  and  manner  pleased  him,  and  he  accosted  me.  I  felt  too 
much  the  want  of  friendship  to  repel  the  advances  of  a  stranger, 
and  there  was  something  in  this  one  so  benevolent  and  winning 
that  in  a  moment  he  gained  my  confidence. 

I  told  him  my  story  and  my  situation,  concealing  only  my 
name  and  rank.  He  appeared  strongly  interested  by  my  recital ; 
invited  me  to  his  house,  and  from  that  time  I  became  his 
favorite  pupil.  He  thought  he  perceived  in  me  extraordinary 
talents  for  the  art,  and  his  encomiums  awakened  all  my  ardor. 
What  a  blissful  period  of  my  existence  was  it  that  I  passed  be 
neath  his  roof.  Another  being  seemed  created  within  me,  or 
rather,  all  that  was  amiable  and  excellent  was  drawn  out.  I 
was  as  recluse  as  ever  I  had  been  at  the  convent,  but  how  dif 
ferent  was  my  seclusion.  My  time  was  spent  in  storing  my 
mind  with  lofty  and  poetical  ideas ;  in  meditating  on  all  that 
was  striking  and  noble  in  history  or  fiction ;  in  studying  and 
tracing  all  that  was  sublime  and  beautiful  in  nature.  I  was 
always  a  visionary,  imaginative  being,  but  now  my  reveries 
and  imaginings  all  elevated  me  to  rapture. 

I  looked  up  to  my  master  as  to  a  benevolent  genius  that  had 
opened  to  me  a  region  of  enchantment.  I  became  devotedly 
attached  to  him.  He  was  not  a  native  of  Genoa,  but  had  been 
drawn  thither  by  the  solicitation  of  several  of  the  nobility,  and 
had  resided  there  but  a  few  years,  for  the  completion  of  oer 


54  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

tain  works  he  had  undertaken.  His  health  was  delicate,  and 
he  had  to  confide  much  of  the  filling  up  of  his  designs  to  the 
pencils  of  his  scholars.  He  considered  me  as  particularly 
happy  in  delineating  the  human  countenance ;  in  seizing  upon 
characteristic,  though  fleeting  expressions  and  fixing  them 
powerfully  upon  my  canvas.  I  was  employed  continually, 
therefore,  in  sketching  faces,  and  often  when  some  particular 
grace  or  beauty  or  expression  was  wanted  in  a  countenance,  it 
was  entrusted  to  my  pencil.  My  benefactor  was  fond  of  bringing 
me  forward ;  and  partly,  perhaps,  through  my  actual  skill,  and 
partly  by  his  partial  praises,  I  began  to  be  noted  for  the  expres 
sion  of  my  countenances. 

Among  the  various  works  which  he  had  undertaken,  was  an 
historical  piece  for  one  of  the  palaces  of  Genoa,  in  which  were 
to  be  introduced  the  likenesses  of  several  of  the  family.  Among 
these  was  one  entrusted  to  my  pencil.  It  was  that  of  a  young 
girl,  who  as  yet  was  in  a  convent  for  her  education.  She  came 
out  for  the  purpose  of  sitting  for  the  picture.  I  first  saw  he* 
in  an  apartment  of  one  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  Genoa. 
She  stood  before  a  casement  that  looked  out  upon  the  bay,  a 
stream  of  vernal  sunshine  fell  upon  her,  and  shed  a  kind  of 
glory  round  her  as  it  lit  up  the  rich  crimson  chamber.  She  was 
but  sixteen  years  of  age — and  oh,  how  lovely !  The  scene  broke 
upon  me  like  a  mere  vision  of  spring  and  youth  and  beauty.  I 
could  have  fallen  down  and  worshipped  her.  She  was  like  one 
of  those  fictions  of  poets  and  painters,  when  they  would  express 
the  beau  ideal  that  haunts  their  minds  with  shapes  of  indescrib 
able  perfection. 

I  was  permitted  to  sketch  her  countenance  in  various  posi 
tions,  and  I  fondly  protracted  the  study  that  was  undoing  me. 
The  more  I  gazed  on  her  the  more  I  became  enamoured; 
there  was  something  almost  painful  in  my  intense  admiration. 
I  was  but  nineteen  years  of  age ;  shy,  diffident,  and  inexperi 
enced.  I  was  treated  with  attention  and  encouragement,  for 
my  youth  and  my  enthusiasm  in  my  art  had  won  favor  for 
me;  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  was  something 
in  my  air  and  manner  that  inspired  interest  and  respect. 
Still  the  kindness  with  which  I  was  treated  could  not  dispel  the 
embarrassment  into  which  my  own  imagination  threw  me 
when  in  presence  of  this  lovely  being.  It  elevated  her  into 
something  almost  more  than  mortal.  She  seemed  too  exquisite 
for  earthly  use ;  too  delicate  and  exalted  for  human  attainment 
As  I  sat  tracing  her  charms  on  my  canvas,  with  my  eyes 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN.  55 

occasionally  riveted  on  her  features,  I  drank  in  delicious  poison 
that  made  me  giddy.  My  heart  alternately  gushed  with  ten 
derness,  and  ached  with  despair.  Now  I  became  more  than 
ever  sensible  of  the  violent  fires  that  had  lain  dormant  at  the 
bottom  of  my  soul.  You  who  are  born  in  a  more  temperate 
climate  and  under  a  cooler  sky,  have  little  idea  of  the  violence 
of  passion  in  our  southern  bosoms. 

A  few  days  finished  my  task ;  Bianca  returned  to  her  con 
vent,  but  her  image  remained  indelibly  impressed  upon  my 
heart.  It  dwelt  on  my  imagination;  it  became  my  pervading \ 
idea  of  beauty.  It  had  an  effect  even  upon  my  pencil;  I 
became  noted  for  my  felicity  in  depicting  female  loveliness ;  it 
was  but  because  I  multiplied  the  image  of  Bianca.  I  soothed, 
and  yet  fed  my  fancy,  by  introducing  her  in  all  the  produc 
tions  of  my  master.  I  have  stood  with  delight  in  one  of  the 
chapels  of  the  Annunciata,  and  heard  the  crowd  extol  the 
seraphic  beauty  of  a  saint  which  I  had  painted ;  I  have  seen 
them  bow  down  in  adoration  before  the  painting :  they  were 
bowing  before  the  loveliness  of  Bianca. 

I  existed  in  this  kind  of  dream,  I  might  almost  say 
delirium,  for  upwards  of  a  year.  Such  is  the  tenacity  of  my 
imagination  that  the  image  which  was  formed  in  it  continued 
in  all  its  power  and  freshness.  Indeed,  I  was  a  solitary,  medi 
tative  being,  much  given  to  reverie,  and  apt  to  foster  ideas 
which  had  once  taken  strong  possession  of  me.  I  was  roused 
from  this  fond,  melancholy,  delicious  dream  by  the  death  of 
my  worthy  benefactor.  I  cannot  describe  the  pangs  his  death 
occasioned  me.  It  left  me  alone  and  almost  broken-hearted. 
He  bequeathed  to  me  his  little  property ;  which,  from  the  liber 
ality  of  his  disposition  and  his  expensive  style  of  living,  was 
indeed  but  small ;  and  he  most  particularly  recommended  me, 
in  dying,  to  the  protection  of  a  nobleman  who  had  been  his 
patron. 

The  latter  was  a  man  who  passed  for  munificent.  He  was  a 
lover  and  an  encourager  of  the  arts,  and  evidently  wished  to 
be  thought  so.  He  fancied  he  saw  in  me  indications  of  future 
excellence ;  my  pencil  had  already  attracted  attention ;  he  took 
me  at  once  under  his  protection;  seeing  that  I  was  over 
whelmed  with  grief,  and  incapable  of  exerting  myself  in  the 
mansion  of  my  late  benefactor,  he  invited  me  to  sojourn  for  a 
time  in  a  villa  which  he  possessed  on  the  border  of  the  sea,  in 
the  picturesque  neighborhood  of  Sestri  de  Ponenti. 

I  found  at  the  villa  the  Count's  only  son,  Filippo :  he  was 


50  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

nearly  of  my  age,  prepossessing  in  his  appearance,  and  fascinafc 
ing  in  his  manners ;  he  attached  himself  to  me,  and  seemed  ta 
court  my  good  opinion.  I  thought  there  was  something  of 
profession  in  his  kindness,  and  of  caprice  in  his  disposition ; 
but  I  had  nothing  else  near  me  to  attach  myself  to,  and  my 
heart  felt  the  need  of  something  to  repose  itself  upon.  His 
education  had  been  neglected;  he  looked  upon  me  as  his 
superior  in  mental  powers  and  acquirements,  and  tacitly 
acknowledged  my  superiority.  I  felt  that  I  was  his  equal  in 
birth,  and  that  gave  an  independence  to  my  manner  which 
had  its  effect.  The  caprice  and  tyranny  I  saw  sometimes  exer 
cised  on  others,  over  whom  he  had  power,  were  never  mani 
fested  towards  me.  We  became  ultimate  friends,  and  frequent 
companions.  Still  I  loved  to  be  alone,  and  to  indulge  in  the 
reveries  of  my  own  imagination,  among  the  beautiful  scenery 
by  which  I  was  surrounded. 

The  villa  stood  in  the  midst  of  ornamented  grounds,  finely 
decorated  with  statues  and  fountains,  and  laid  out  into  groves 
and  alleys  and  shady  bowers.  It  commanded  a  wide  view  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  the  picturesque  Ligurian  coast. 
Every  thing  was  assembled  here  that  could  gratify  the  taste  or 
agreeably  occupy  the  mind.  Soothed  by  the  tranquillity  of 
this  elegant  retreat,  the  turbulence  of  my  feelings  gradually 
subsided,  and,  blending  with  the  romantic  spell  that  still 
reigned  over  my  imagination,  produced  a  soft  voluptuous 
melancholy. 

I  had  not  been  long  under  the  roof  of  the  Count,  when  our 
solitude  was  enlivened  by  another  inhabitant.  It  was  a 
daughter  of  a  relation  of  the  Count,  who  had  lately  died  in 
reduced  circumstances,  bequeathing  this  only  child  to  his  pro 
tection.  I  had  heard  much  of  her  beauty  from  Filippo,  but  my 
fancy  had  become  so  engrossed  by  one  idea  of  beauty  as  not  to 
admit  of  any  other.  We  were  in  the  central  saloon  of  the 
villa  when  she  arrived.  She  was  still  in  mourning,  and 
approached,  leaning  on  the  Count's  arm.  As  they  ascended 
the  marble  portico,  I  was  struck  by  the  elegance  of  her  figure 
and  movement,  by  the  grace  with  which  the  mezzaro,  the 
bewitching  veil  of  Genoa,  was  folded  about  her  slender  form. 
They  entered.  Heavens!  what  was  my  surprise  when  I 
beheld  Bianca  before  me.  It  was  herself ;  pale  with  grief ;  but 
still  more  matured  in  loveliness  than  when  I  had  last  beheld 
her.  The  time  that  had  elapsed  had  developed  the  graces  of 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  57 

her  person ;  and  the  sorrow  she  had  undergone  had  diffused 
over  her  countenance  an  irresistible  tenderness. 

She  blushed  and  trembled  at  seeing  me,  and  tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes,  for  she  remembered  in  whose  company  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  behold  me.  For  my  part,  I  can 
not  express  what  were  my  emotions.  By  degrees  I  overcame 
the  extreme  shyness  that  had  formerly  paralyzed  me  in  her 
presence.  We  were  drawn  together  by  sympathy  of  situation. 
We  had  each  lost  our  best  friend  in  the  world ;  we  were  each, 
in  some  measure  thrown  upon  the  kindness  of  others.  When 
I  came  to  know  her  intellectually,  all  my  ideal  picturings  of 
her  were  confirmed.  Her  newness  to  the  world,  her  delightful 
susceptibility  to  every  thing  beautiful  and  agreeable  in  nature, 
reminded  me  of  my  own  emotions  when  first  I  escaped  from 
the  convent.  Her  rectitude  of  thinking  delighted  my  judg 
ment  ;  the  sweetness  of  her  nature  wrapped  itself  around  my 
heart ;  and  then  her  young  and  tender  and  budding  loveliness, 
sent  a  delicious  madness  to  my  brain. 

I  gazed  upon  her  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  as  something  more 
than  mortal;  and  I  felt  humiliated  at  the  idea  of  my  compara 
tive  un worthiness.  Yet  she  was  mortal ;  and  one  of  mortality's 
most  susceptible  and  loving  compounds ;  for  she  loved  me ! 

How  first  I  discovered  the  transporting  truth  I  cannot  recol 
lect  ;  I  believe  it  stole  upon  me  by  degrees,  as  a  wonder  past 
hope  or  belief.  We  were  both  at  such  a  tender  and  loving  age ; 
in  constant  intercourse  with  each  other ;  mingling  in  the  same 
elegant  pursuits;  for  music,  poetry,  and  painting  were  our 
mutual  delights,  and  we  were  almost  separated  from  society, 
among  lovely  and  romantic  scenery !  Is  it  strange  that  two 
young  hearts  thus  brought  together  should  readily  twine  round 
each  other? 

Oh,  gods !  what  a  dream — a  transient  dream !  of  -unalloyed 
delight  then  passed  over  my  soul !  Then  it  was  that  the  world 
around  me  was  indeed  a  paradise,  for  I  had  a  woman — lovely, 
delicious  woman,  to  share  it  with  me.  How  often  have  I  ram 
bled  over  the  picturesque  shores  of  Sestri,  or  climbed  its  wild 
mountains,  with  the  coast  gemmed  with  villas,  and  the  blue 
sea  far  below  me,  and  the  slender  Pharo  of  Genoa  on  its  roman 
tic  promontory  in  the  distance ;  and  as  I  sustained  the  faltering 
steps  of  Bianca,  have  thought  there  could  no  unhappiness 
enter  into  so  beautiful  a  world.  Why,  oh,  why  is  this  budding 
season  of  life  and  love  so  transient — why  is  this  rosy  cloud  of 


53  TALES  OF  A  TRA  VELLER. 

love  that  sheds  such  a  glow  over  the  morning  of  our  days  so 
prone  to  brew  up  into  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm ! 

I  was  the  first  to  awaken  from  this  blissful  delirium  of  the 
affections.  I  had  gained  Bianca's  heart ;  what  was  I  to  do  with 
it?  I  had  no  wealth  nor  prospects  to  entitle  me  to  her  hand. 
Was  I  to  take  advantage  of  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  of  her 
confiding  affection,  and  draw  her  down  to  my  own  poverty? 
Was  this  requiting  the  hospitality  of  the  Count? — was  this 
requiting  the  love  of  Bianca? 

Now  first  I  began  to  feel  that  even  successful  love  may  have 
its  bitterness.  A  corroding  care  gathered  about  my  heart.  I 
moved  about  the  palace  like  a  guilty  being.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
abused  its  hospitality — as  if  I  were  a  thief  within  its  walls.  I 
could  no  longer  look  with  unembarrassed  mien  in  the  counte 
nance  of  the  Count.  I  accused  myself  of  perfidy  to  him,  and 
I  thought  he  read  it  in  my  looks,  and  began  to  distrust  and  de 
spise  me.  His  manner  had  always  been  ostentatious  and  con 
descending,  it  now  appeared  cold  and  haughty.  Filippo,  too, 
became  reserved  and  distant ;  or  at  least  I  suspected  him  to  be 
8O.  Heavens ! — was  this  mere  coinage  of  my  brain :  was  I  to 
become  suspicious  of  all  the  world?— a  poor  surmising  wretch ; 
watching  looks  and  gestures ;  and  torturing  myself  with  mis 
constructions.  Or  if  true— was  I  to  remain  beneath  a  roof 
where  I  was  merely  tolerated,  and  linger  there  on  sufferance? 
"This  is  not  to  be  endured ! "  exclaimed  I;  " I  will  tear  mysel 
from  this  state  of  self-abasement ;  I  will  break  through  this  fas 
cination  and  fly Fly? — whither? — from  the  world? — for 

where  is  the  world  when  I  leave  Bianca  behind  me !" 

My  spirit  was  naturally  proud,  and  swelled  within  me  at  the 
idea  of  being  looked  upon  with  contumely.  Many  times  I  was 
on  the  point  of  declaring  my  family  and  rank,  and  asserting 
my  equality,  in  the  presence  of  Bianca,  when  I  thought  her 
relatives  assumed  an  air  of  superiority.  But  the  feeling  was 
transient.  I  considered  myself  discarded  and  contemned  by 
my  family ;  and  had  solemnly  vowed  never  to  own  relationship 
to  them,  until  they  themselves  should  claim  it. 

The  struggle  of  my  mind  preyed  upon  my  happiness  and  my 
health.  It  seemed  as  if  the  uncertainty  of  being  loved  would 
be  less  intolerable  than  thus  to  be  assured  of  it,  and  yet  not 
dare  to  enjoy  the  conviction.  I  was  no  longer  the  enraptured 
admirer  of  Bianca;  I  no  longer  hung  in  ecstasy  on  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  nor  drank  in  with  insatiate  gaze  the  beauty  of  her 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  59 

countenance.  Her  very  smiles  ceased  to  delight  me,  for  I  felt 
culpable  in  having  won  them. 

She  could  not  but  be  sensible  of  the  change  in  me,  and  in 
quired  the  cause  with  her  usual  frankness  and  simplicity.  I 
could  not  evade  the  inquiry,  for  my  heart  was  full  to  aching. 
I  told  her  all  the  conflict  of  my  soul ;  my  devouring  passion, 
my  bitter  self -upbraiding.  "Yes!"  said  I,  "I  am  unworthy 
of  you.  I  am  an  offcast  from  my  family — a  wanderer — a  name 
less,  homeless  wanderer,  with  nothing  but  poverty  for  my  por 
tion,  and  yet  I  have  dared  to  love  you— have  dared  to  aspire 
to  your  love ! " 

My  agitation  moved  her  to  tears ;  but  she  saw  nothing  in  my 
situation  so  hopeless  as  I  had  depicted  it.  Brought  up  in  a  con 
vent,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  its  wants,  its  cares ; — and, 
indeed,  what  woman  is  a  worldly  casuist  in  matters  of  the 
heart!— Nay,  more — she  kindled  into  a  sweet  enthusiasm  when 
she  spoke  of  my  fortunes  and  myself.  We  had  dwelt  together 
on  the  works  of  the  famous  masters.  I  had  related  to  her 
their  histories ;  the  high  reputation,  the  influence,  the  magnifi 
cence  to  which  they  had  attained ; — the  companions  of  princes, 
the  favorites  of  kings,  the  pride  and  boast  of  nations.  All  this 
she  applied  to  me.  Her  love  saw  nothing  in  their  greatest 
productions  that  I  was  not  able  to  achieve ;  and  when  I  saw 
the  lovely  creature  glow  with  fervor,  and  her  whole  counte 
nance  radiant  with  the  visions  of  my  glory,  which  seemed 
breaking  upon  her,  I  was  snatched  up  for  the  moment  into 
the  heaven  of  her  own  imagination. 

I  am  d  welling  too  long  upon  this  part  of  my  story ;  yet  I 
cannot  help  lingering  over  a  period  of  my  lif e,  on  which,  with 
all  its  cares  and  conflicts,  I  look  back  with  f ondnesss ;  for  as 
yet  my  soul  was  unstained  by  a  crime.  I  do  not  know  what 
might  have  been  the  result  of  this  struggle  between  pride, 
delicacy,  and  passion,  had  I  not  read  in  a  Neapolitan  gazette 
an  account  of  the  sudden  death  of  my  brother.  It  was  ac 
companied  by  an  earnest  inquiry  for  intelligence  concerning 
me,  and  a  prayer,  should  this  notice  meet  my  eye,  that  I  would 
hasten  to  Naples,  to  comfort  an  infirm  and  afflicted  father. 

I  was  naturally  of  an  affectionate  disposition ;  but  my  brother 
had  never  been  as  a  brother  to  me ;  I  had  long  considered  my 
self  as  disconnected  from  him,  and  his  death  caused  me  but 
little  emotion.  The  thoughts  of  my  father,  infirm  and  suffer 
ing,  touched  me.  however,  to  the  quick ;  and  when  I  thought 
of  him,  that  lofty,  magnificent  being,  now  bowed  down  and 


(50  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

desolate,  and  tiling  to  me  for  comfort,  all  my  resentment  for 
past  neglect  was  subdued,  and  a  glow  of  filial  affection  was 
awakened  within  me. 

The  predominant  feeling,  however,  that  overpowered  all 
others  was  transport  at  the  sudden  change  in  my  whole  for^ 
tunes.  A  home — a  name— a  rank — wealth  awaited  me;  and 
love  painted  a  still  more  rapturous  prospect  in  the  distance.  I 
hastened  to  Bianca,  and  threw  myself  at  her  feet.  "  Oh, 
Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  "at  length  I  can  claim  you  for  my  own. 
I  am  no  longer  a  nameless  adventurer,  a  neglected,  rejected 
outcast.  Look— read,  behold  the  tidings  that  restore  me  to  my 
name  and  to  myself ! " 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene  that  ensued.  Bianca  rejoiced 
in  the  reverse  of  my  situation,  because  she  saw  it  lightened  my 
heart  of  a  load  of  care ;  for  her  own  part  she  had  loved  me  for 
myself,  and  had  never  doubted  that  my  own  merits  would 
command  both  fame  and  fortune. 

I  now  felt  all  my  native  pride  buoyant  within  me;  I  no 
longer  walked  with  my  eyes  bent  to  the  dust ;  hope  elevated 
them  to  the  skies;  my  soul  was  lit  up  with  fresh  fires,  and 
beamed  from  my  countenance. 

I  wished  to  impart  the  change  in  my  circumstances  to  the 
Count ;  to  let  him  know  who  and  what  I  was,  and  to  make  for 
mal  proposals  for  the  hand  of  Bianca;  but  the  Count  was 
absent  on  a  distant  estate.  I  opened  my  whole  soul  to  Filippo. 
Now  first  I  told  him  of  my  passion ;  of  the  doubts  and  fears 
that  had  distracted  me,  and  of  the  tidings  that  had  suddenly 
dispelled  them.  He  overwhelmed  me  with  congratulations  and 
with  the  warmest  expressions  of  sympathy.  I  embraced  him 
in  the  fullness  of  my  heart.  I  felt  compunctious  for  having  sus 
pected  him  of  coldness,  and  asked  him  forgiveness  for  having 
ever  doubted  his  friendship. 

Nothing  is  so  warm  and  enthusiastic  as  a  sudden  expansion 
of  the  heart  between  young  men.  Filippo  entered  into  our  con 
cerns  with  the  most  eager  interest.  He  was  our  confidant  and 
counsellor.  It  was  determined  that  I  should  hasten  at  once  to 
Naples  to  re-establish  myself  in  my  father's  affections  and  my 
paternal  home,  and  the  moment  the  reconciliation  was  effected 
and  my  father's  consent  insured,  I  should  return  and  demand 
Bianca  of  the  Count.  Filippo  engaged  to  secure  his  father's 
acquiescence ;  indeed,  he  undertook  to  watch  over  our  interests, 
and  was  the  channel  through  which  we  were  to  correspond. 

My  parting  with  Bianca  was  tender — delicious — agonizing. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN.  61 

It  was  in  a  little  pavilion  of  the  garden  which  had  been  one  of 
our  favorite  resorts.  How  often  and  often  did  I  return  to  have 
one  more  adieu — to  have  her  look  once  more  on  me  in  speech 
less  emotion — to  enjoy  once  more  the  rapturous  sight  of  those 
tears  streaming  down  her  lovely  cheeks — to  seize  once  more  on 
that  delicate  hand,  the  frankly  accorded  pledge  of  love,  and 
cover  it  with  tears  and  kisses !  Heavens !  There  is  a  delight 
even  in  the  parting  agony  of  two  lovers  worth  a  thousand  tame 
pleasures  of  the  world.  I  have  her  at  this  moment  before  my 
eyes — at  the  window  of  the  pavilion,  putting  aside  the  vines 
that  clustered  about  the  casement — her  light  form  beaming 
forth  in  virgin  white — her  countenance  all  tears  and  smiles — 
sending  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  adieus  after  me,  as,  hesita 
ting,  in  a  delirium  of  fondness  and  agitation,  I  faltered  my  way 
down  the  avenue. 

As  the  bark  bore  me  out  of  the  habor  of  Genoa,  how  eagerly 
my  eyes  stretched  along  the  coast  of  Sestri,  till  it  discerned  the 
villa  gleaming  from  among  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
As  long  as  day  lasted,  I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  it,  till  it  lessened 
and  lessened  to  a  mere  white  speck  in  the  distance ;  and  still 
my  intense  and  fixed  gaze  discerned  it,  when  all  other  objects 
of  the  coast  had  blended  into  indistinct  confusion,  or  were  lost 
in  the  evening  gloom. 

On  arriving  at  Naples,  I  hastened  to  my  paternal  home.  My 
heart  yearned  for  the  long-witheld  blessing  of  a  father's  love. 
As  I  entered  the  proud  portal  of  the  ancestral  palace,  my  emo 
tions  were  so  great  that  I  could  not  speak.  No  one  knew  me. 
The  servants  gazed  at  me  with  curiosity  and  surprise.  A  few 
years  of  intellectual  elevation  and  development  had  made  a 
prodigious  change  in  the  poor  fugitive  stripling  from  the  con 
vent.  Still  that  no  one  should  know  me  in  my  rightful  home 
was  overpowering.  I  felt  like  the  prodigal  son  returned.  I 
was  a  stranger  in  the  house  of  my  father.  I  burst  into  tears, 
and  wept  aloud.  When  I  made  myself  known,  however,  all 
was  changed.  I  who  had  once  been  almost  repulsed  from  its 
walls,  and  forced  to  fly  as  an  exile,  was  welcomed  back  with 
acclamation,  with  servility.  One  of  the  servants  hastened  to 
prepare  my  father  for  my  reception ;  my  eagerness  to  receive 
the  paternal  embrace  was  so  great  that  I  could  not  await  his 
return ;  but  hurried  after  him. 

What  a  spectacle  met  my  eyes  as  I  entered  the  chamber !  My 
father,  whom  I  had  left  in  the  pride  of  vigorous  age,  whose 
noble  and  majestic  bearing  had  so  awed  my  young  imagina- 


62  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

tion,  was  bowed  down  and  withered  into  decrepitude.  A 
paralysis  had  ravaged  his  stately  form,  and  left  it  a  shaking 
ruin.  He  sat  propped  up  in  his  chair,  with  pale,  relaxed  visage 
and  glassy,  wandering  eye.  His  intellects  had  evidently  shared 
in  the  ravage  of  his  frame.  The  servant  was  endeavoring  to 
make  him  comprehend  the  visitor  that  was  at  hand.  I  tottered 
up  to  him  and  sunk  at  his  feet.  All  his  past  coldness  and  neg 
lect  were  forgotten  in  his  present  sufferings.  I  remembered 
only  that  he  was  my  parent,  and  that  I  had  deserted  him.  I 
clasped  his  knees ;  my  voice  was  almost  stifled  with  convulsive 
sobs.  "  Pardon — pardon — oh  my  father!"  was  all  that  I  could 
utter.  His  apprehension  seemed  slowly  to  return  to  him.  He 
gazed  at. me  for  some  moments  with  a  vague,  inquiring  look;  a 
convulsive  tremor  quivered  about  his  lips ;  he  feebly  extended 
a  shaking  hand,  laid  it  upon  my  head,  and  burst  into  an  infan 
tine  flow  of  tears. 

From  that  moment  he  would  scarcely  spare  me  from  his 
sight.  I  appeared  the  only  object  that  his  heart  responded  to 
in  the  world ;  all  else  was  as  a  blank  to  him.  He  had  almost 
lost  the  powers  of  speech,  and  the  reasoning  faculty  seemed  at 
an  end.  He  was  mute  and  passive;  excepting  that  fits  of 
child-like  weeping  would  sometimes  come  over  him  without 
any  immediate  cause.  If  I  left  the  room  at  any  time,  his  eye 
was  incessantly  fixed  on  the  door  till  my  return,  and  on  my 
entrance  there  was  another  gush  of  tears. 

To  talk  with  him  of  my  concerns,  in  this  ruined  state  of  mind, 
would  have  been  worse  than  useless ;  to  have  left  him,  for  ever 
so  short  a  time,  would  have  been  cruel,  unnatural.  Here  then 
was  a  new  trial  for  my  affections.  I  wrote  to  Bianca  an  ac 
count  of  my  return  and  of  my  actual  situation;  painting  in 
colors  vivid,  for  they  were  true,  the  torments  I  suffered  at  our 
being  thus  separated ;  for  to  the  youthful  lover  every  day  of 
absence  is  an  age  of  love  lost.  I  enclosed  the  letter  in  one  to 
Filippo,  who  was  the  channel  of  our  correspondence.  I  received 
a  reply  from  him  full  of  friendship  and  sympathy ;  from  Bianca 
full  of  assurances  of  affection  and  constancy. 

Week  after  week,  month  after  month  elapsed,  without 
making  any  change  in  my  circumstances.  The  vital  flame, 
which  had  seemed  nearly  extinct  when  first  I  met  my  father, 
kept  fluttering  on  without  any  apparent  diminution.  I  watched 
him  constantly,  faithfully— I  had  almost  said  patiently.  I 
knew  that  his  death  alone  would  set  me  free ;  yet  I  never  at 
any  moment  wished  it.  I  felt  too  glad  to  be  able  to  make  any 


TEE  STORY  OF  THE   TO  UNO  ITALIAN.  03 

atonement  for  past  disobedience ;  and,  denied  as  I  had  been  all 
endearments  of  relationship  in  my  early  days,  my  heart  yearned 
towards  a  father,  who,  in  his  age  and  helplessness,  had  thrown 
himself  entirely  on  me  for  comfort.  My  passion  for  Bianca 
gained  daily  more  force  from  absence ;  by  constant  meditation 
it  wore  itself  a  deeper  and  deeper  channel.  I  made  no  new 
friends  nor  acquaintances;  sought  none  of  the  pleasures  of 
Naples  which  my  rank  and  fortune  threw  open  to  me.  Mine 
was  a  heart  that  confined  itself  to  few  objects,  but  dwelt  upon 
those  with  the  intenser  passion.  To  sit  by  my  father,  and  ad 
minister  to  his  wants,  and  to  meditate  on  Bianca  in  the  silence 
of  his  chamber,  was  my  constant  habit.  Sometimes  I  amused 
myself  with  my  pencil  in  portraying  the  image  that  was  ever 
present  to  my  imagination.  I  transferred  to  canvas  every  look 
and  smile  of  hers  that  dwelt  in  my  heart.  I  showed  them  to 
my  father  in  hopes  of  awakening  an  interest  in  his  bosom  for 
the  mere  shadow  of  my  love ;  but  he  was  too  far  sunk  in  intel 
lect  to  take  any  more  than  a  child-like  notice  of  them. 

When  I  received  a  letter  from  Bianca  it  was  a  new  source  of 
solitary  luxury.  Her  letters,  it  is  true,  were  less  and  less  fre 
quent,  but  they  were  always  full  of  assurances  of  unabated 
affection.  They  breathed  not  the  frank  and  innocent  warmth 
with  which  she  expressed  herself  in  conversation,  but  I  ac 
counted  for  it  from  the  embarrassment  which  inexperienced 
minds  have  often  to  express  themselves  upon  paper.  Filippo 
assured  me  of  her  unaltered  canstancy.  They  both  lamented 
in  the  strongest  terms  our  continued  separation,  though  they 
did  justice  to  the  filial  feeling  that  kept  me  by  my  father's 
side. 

Nearly  eighteen  months  elapsed  in  this  protracted  exile.  To 
me  they  were  so  many  ages.  Ardent  and  impetuous  by 
nature,  I  scarcely  know  how  I  should  have  supported  so  long  an 
absence,  had  I  not  felt  assured  that  the  faith  of  Bianca  was 
equal  to  my  own.  At  length  my  father  died.  Life  went  from 
him  almost  imperceptibly.  I  hung  over  him  in  mute  affliction, 
and  watched  the  expiring  spasms  of  nature.  His  last  faltering 
accents  whispered  repeatedly  a  blessing  on  me — alas !  how  has 
it  been  fulfilled ! 

When  I  had  paid  due  honors  to  his  remains,  and  laid  them 
in  the  tomb  of  our  ancestors,  I  arranged  briefly  my  affairs ;  put 
them  in  a  posture  to  be  easily  at  my  command  from  a  distance, 
and  embarked  once  more,  with  a  bounding  heart,  for  Genoa. 

Our  voyage  was  propitious,  and  oh !  what  was  my  rapture 


64  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

when  first,  in  the  dawn  of  morning,  I  saw  the  shadowy  sum 
mits  of  the  Apennines  rising  almost  like  clouds  above  the 
horizon.  The  sweet  breath  of  summer  just  moved  us  over  the 
long  wavering  billows  that  were  rolling  us  on  towards  Genoa. 
By  degrees  the  coast  of  Sestri  rose  like  a  sweet  creation  of 
enchantment  from  the  silver  bosom  of  the  deep.  I  beheld  the 
line  of  villages  and  palaces  studding  its  borders.  My  eye 
reverted  to  a  well-known  point,  and  at  length,  from  the  con 
fusion  of  distant  objects,  it  singled  out  the  villa  which  con 
tained  Bianca.  It  was  a  mere  speck  in  the  landscape,  but 
glimmering  from  afar,  the  polar  star  of  my  heart. 

Again  I  gazed  at  it  for  a  livelong  summer's  day ;  but  oh  how 
different  the  emotions  between  departure  and  return.  It  now 
kept  growing  and  growing,  instead  of  lessening  on  my  sight. 
My  heart  seemed  to  dilate  with  it.  I  looked  at  it  through  a 
telescope.  I  gradually  denned  one  feature  after  another.  The 
balconies  of  the  central  saloon  where  first  I  met  Bianoa  beneath 
its  roof;  the  terrace  where  we  so  often  had  passed  the  delight 
ful  summer  evenings;  the  awning  that  shaded  her  chamber 
window — I  almost  fancied  I  saw  her  form  beneath  it.  Could 
she  but  know  her  lover  was  in  the  bark  whose  white  sail  now 
gleamed  on  the  sunny  bosom  of  the  sea !  My  fond  impatience 
increased  as  we  neared  the  coast.  The  ship  seemed  to  lag 
lazily  over  the  billows ;  I  could  almost  have  sprung  into  the 
sea  and  swam  to  the  desired  shore. 

The  shadows  of  evening  gradually  shrouded  the  scene,  but 
the  moon  arose  in  all  her  fullness  and  beauty,  and  shed  the 
tender  light  so  dear  to  lovers,  over  the  romantic  coast  of  Sestri. 
My  whole  soul  was  bathed  in  unutterable  tenderness.  I  an 
ticipated  the  heavenly  evenings  I  should  pass  in  wandering 
with  Bianca  by  the  light  of  that  blessed  moon. 

It  was  late  at  night  before  we  entered  the  harbor.  As  early 
next  morning  as  I  could  get  released  from  the  formalities  of 
landing  I  threw  myself  on  horseback  and  hastened  to  the  villa. 
As  I  galloped  round  the  rocky  promontory  on  which  stands 
the  Faro,  and  saw  the  coast  of  Sestri  opening  upon  me,  a  thou 
sand  anxieties  and  doubts  suddenly  sprang  up  in  my  bosom. 
There  is  something  fearful  in  returning  to  those  we  love,  while 
yet  uncertain  what  ills  or  changes  absence  may  have  effected. 
The  turbulence  of  my  agitation  shook  my  very  frame.  I 
spurred  my  horse  to  redoubled  speed;  he  was  covered  with 
foam  when  we  both  arrived  panting  at  the  gateway  that 
opened  to  the  grounds  around  the  villa.  I  left  my  horse  at  a 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  65 

cottage  and  walked  through  the  grounds,  that  I  might  regain 
tranquillity  for  the  approaching  interview.  I  chid  myself  for 
having  suffered  mere  doubts  and  surmises  thus  suddenly  to 
overcome  me ;  but  I  was  always  prone  to  be  carried  away  by 
these  gusts  of  the  feelings. 

On  entering  the  garden  everything  bore  the  same  look  as 
when  I  had  left  it ;  and  this  unchanged  aspect  of  things  reas 
sured  me.  There  were  the  alleys  in  which  I  had  so  often 
walked  with  Bianca ;  the  same  shades  under  which  we  had  so 
often  sat  during  the  noontide.  There  were  the  same  flowers  of 
which  she  was  fond ;  and  which  appeared  still  to  be  under  the 
ministry  of  her  hand.  Everything  around  looked  and  breathed 
of  Bianca ;  hope  aud  joy  flushed  in  my  bosom  at  every  step. 
I  passed  a  little  bower  in  which  we  had  often  sat  and  read 
together.  A  book  and  a  glove  lay  on  the  bench.  It  was 
Bianca's  glove ;  it  was  a  volume  of  the  Metestasio  I  had  given 
her.  The  glove  lay  in  my  favorite  passage.  I  clasped  them  to 
my  heart.  "All  is  safe!"  exclaimed  I,  with  rapture,  "she 
loves  me !  she  is  still  my  own  1" 

I  bounded  lightly  along  the  avenue  down  which  I  had  fal 
tered  so  slowly  at  my  departure.  I  beheld  her  favorite  pavilion 
which  had  witnessed  our  parting  scene.  The  window  was 
open,  with  the  same  vine  clambering  about  it,  precisely  as 
when  she  waved  and  wept  me  an  adieu.  Oh !  how  transporting 
was  the  contrast  in  my  situation.  As  I  passed  near  the  pavil 
ion,  I  heard  the  tones  of  a  female  voice.  They  thrilled  through 
me  with  an  appeal  to  my  heart  not  to  be  mistaken.  Before  I 
could  think,  I  felt  they  were  Bianca's.  For  an  instant  I 
paused,  overpowered  with  agitation.  I  feared  to  break  in  sud 
denly  upon  her.  I  softly  ascended  the  steps  of  the  pavilion. 
The  door  was  open.  I  saw  Bianca  seated  at  a  table ;  her  back 
|  was  towards  me ;  she  was  warbling  a  soft  melancholy  air,  and 
was  occupied  in  drawing.  A  glance  sufficed  to  show  me  that 
she  was  copying  one  of  my  own  paintings.  I  gazed  on  her  for 
a  moment  in  a  delicious  tumult  of  emotions.  She  paused  in 
her  singing;  a  heavy  sigh,  almost  a  sob  followed.  I  could  no 
longer  contain  myself.  "Bianca!"  exclaimed  I,  in  a  half 
smothered  voice.  See  started  at  the  sound ;  brushed  back  the 
ringlets  that  hung  clustering  about  her  face ;  darted  a  glance  at 
me-,  uttered  a  piercing  shriek,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the 
earth,  had  I  not  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"Bianca!  my  own  Bianca!"  exclaimed  I,  folding  her  to  my 
bosom ;  my  voice  stifled  in  sobs  of  convulsive  joy.  She  lay  in 


66  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

my  arms  without  sense  or  motion.  Alarmed  at  the  effects  of 
my  own  precipitation,  I  scarce  knew  what  to  do.  I  tried  by  a 
thousand  endearing  words  to  call  her  back  to  consciousness. 
She  slowly  recovered,  and  half  opening  her  eyes — "  where  am 
I  ?  "  murmured  she  faintly.  "  Here,"  exclaimed  I,  pressing  her 
to  my  bosom.  "  Here  !  close  to  the  heart  that  adores  you ;  in 
the  arms  of  your  faithful  Ottavio  ! " 

"  Oh  no  !  no !  no  ! "  shrieked  she,  starting  into  sudden  life 
and  terror — "  away !  away !  leave  me !  leave  me ! " 

She  tore  herself  from  my  arms  ;  rushed  to  a  corner  of  the 
saloon,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  the  very 
sight  of  me  were  baleful.  I  was  thunderstruck — I  could  not 
believe  my  senses.  I  followed  her,  trembling,  confounded.  I 
endeavored  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  shrunk  from  my  very 
touch  with  horror. 

"  Good  heavens,  Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  "  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  ?  Is  this  my  reception  after  so  long  an  absence  ?  Is 
this  the  love  you  professed  for  me  ?  " 

At  the  mention  of  love,  a  shuddering  ran  through  her.  She 
turned  to  me  a  face  wild  with  anguish.  "  No  more  of  that ! 
no  more  of  that ! "  gasped  she — "  talk  not  to  me  of  love — I — I 
— am  married ! " 

I  reeled  as  if  I  had  received  a  mortal  blow.  A  sickness 
struck  to  my  very  heart.  I  caught  at  a  window  frame  for 
support.  For  a  moment  or  two,  everything  was  chaos  around 
me.  When  I  recovered,  I  beheld  Bianca  lying  on  a  sofa  ;  her 
face  buried  in  a  pillow,  and  sobbing  convulsively.  Indignation 
at  her  fickleness  for  a  moment  overpowered  every  other  feeling. 

"Faithless — perjured — "  cried  I,  striding  across  the  room. 
But  another  glance  at  that  beautiful  being  in  distress,  checked 
all  my  wrath.  Anger  could  not  dwell  together  with  her  idea 
ua  my  soul. 

"  Oh,  Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  in  anguish,  "  could  I  have  dreamt 
of  this  ;  could  I  have  suspected  you  would  have  been  false  to 
me?" 

She  raised  her  face  all  streaming  with  tears,  all  disordered 
with  emotion,  and  gave  me  one  appealing  look — "False  to  you ! 
— they  told  me  you  were  dead  ! " 

"What,"  said  I,  "in  spite  of  our  constant  correspondence?" 

She  gazed  wildly  at  me — "  correspondence  ! — what  corre 
spondence  ?  " 

"Have  you  not  repeatedly  received  and  replied  to  m? 
letters?" 


THE  STORT  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  67 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  solemnity  and  fervor — "As  I 
hope  for  mercy,  never !" 

A  horrible  surmise  shot  through  my  brain — "  Who  told  you 
I  was  dead?" 

"It  was  reported  that  the  ship  in  which  you  embarked  for 
Naples  perished  at  sea." 

"  But  who  told  you  the  report?" 

She  paused  for  an  instant,  and  trembled — 

"Filippo!" 

"  May  the  God  of  heaven  curse  him !"  cried  I,  extending  my 
clinched  fists  aloft. 

" Oh  do  not  curse  him— do  not  curse  him!"  exclaimed  she — 
"He  is — he  is — my  husband!" 

This  was  all  that  was  wanting  to  unfold  the  perfidy  that  had 
been  practised  upon  me.  My  blood  boiled  like  liquid  fire  in 
my  veins.  I  gasped  with  rage  too  great  for  utterance.  I 
remained  for  a  time  bewildered  by  the  whirl  of  horrible 
thoughts  that  rushed  through  my  mind.  The  poor  victim 
of  deception  before  me  thought  it  was  with  her  I  was  incensed. 
She  faintly  murmured  forth  her  exculpation.  I  will  not  dwell 
upon  it.  I  saw  in  it  more  than  she  meant  to  reveal.  I  saw 
with  a  glance -how  both  of  us  had  been  betrayed.  "  'Tis  well !" 
muttered  I  to  myself  in  smothered  accents  of  concentrated 
fury.  ' '  He  shall  account  to  me  for  this !" 

Bianca  overhead  me.  New  terror  flashed  in  her  counte 
nance.  "For  mercy's  sake  do  not  meet  him — say  nothing  of 
what  has  passed— for  my  sake  say  nothing  to  him— I  only  shall 
be  the  sufferer !" 

A  new  suspicion  darted  across  my  mind — 4 '  What !"  exclaimed 
I — "do  you  then  fear  him— is  he  unkind  to  you — tell  me," 
reiterated  I,  grasping  her  hand  and  looking  her  eagerly  in  the 
face-  "tell  me— dares  he  to  use  you  harshly !" 

"No!  no!  no!"  cried  she  faltering  and  embarrassed;  but  the 
•In  nee  at  her  face  had  told  me  volumes.  I  saw  in  her  pallid 
and  wasted  features ;  in  the  prompt  terror  and  subdued  agony 
of  her  eye  a  whole  history  of  a  mind  broken  down  by  tyranny. 
Great  God !  and  was  this  beauteous  flower  snatched  from  me 
to  be  thus  trampled  upon?  The  idea  roused  me  to  madness. 
I  clinched  my  teeth  and  my  hands ;  I  foamed  at  the  mouth ; 
every  passion  seemed  to  have  resolved  itself  into  the  fury  that 
like  a  lava  boiled  within  my  heart.  Bianca  shrunk  from  me 
in  speechless  affright.  As  I  strode  by  the  wmdow  my  eye 
darted  down  the  alley.  Fata^  moment!  I  beheld  Filippo  at  a 


5?  TALES  OP  A   TRAVELLER. 

distance!  My  brain  was  in  a  delirium— I  sprang  from  the 
pavilion,  and  was  before  him  with  the  quickness  of  lightning. 
He  saw  me  as  I  came  rushing  upon  him — he  turned  pale, 
looked  wildly  to  right  and  left,  as  if  he  would  have  fled,  and 
trembling  drew  his  sword, 

**  Wretch  f  cried  I,  "  well  may  you  draw  your  weapon  !w 

I  spake  not  another  word— I  snatched  forth  a  stiletto,  put  by 
the  sword  wiiicii  trembled  in  his  hand,  and  buried  my  poniard 
in  his  bosom.  He  feU  with  the  blow,  but  my  rage  was  unsated 
I  sprang  upon  him  with  the  blood-thirsty  feeling  of  a  tiger; 
redoubled  my  blows;  mangled  him  in  my  frenzy,  grasped  him 
by  the  throat,  until  with  reiterated  wounds  and  strangling 
convulsions  he  expired  in  my  grasp.  I  remained  glaring  on 
the  countenance,  IM»*M»  jn  At^A\}  that  seemed  to  stare  back 
with  its  fiintiiiiiiH  eyes  upon  me.  Piercing  shrieks  roused  me 
from  my  delirium.  Hooked  round  and  beheld  Bianca  flying 
distractedly  towards  us.  My  brain  whirled  I  waited  not  to 
•not  her,  but  fled  from  the  scene  of  horror.  I  fled  forth  from 
the  garden  like  another  Cain,  a  hell  within  my  bosom,  and  a 
curse  upon  my  head.  I  fled  without  knowing  whither — almost 
without  knowing  why— my  only  idea  was  to  get  farther  and 
farther  from  the  honors  I  had  left  behind;  as  if  I  could  throw 
gpace  between  myself  and  my  conscience.  I  fled  to  the  Apen 
nines,  and  wandered  for  days  and  days  among  their  savage 
heights.  How  I  existed  I  cannot  tefl— what  rocks  and  preci- 
pices  I  braved,  and  how  I  braved  them,  I  know  not.  I  kept 
on  and  on— trying  to  outtravel  the  curse  that  clung  to  me. 
Alas,  the  shrieks  of  Bianca  rung  for  ever  in  my  ear.  The  hor 
rible  countenance  of  my  victim  was  for  ever  before  my  eyes. 
"The  blood  of  Fflippo  cried  to  me  from  the  ground"  Rocks, 
trees,  and  torrents  all  resounded  with  my  crime. 

Then  it  was  I  felt  how  much  more  insupportable  is  the 
anguish  of  remorse  than  every  other  mental  pang.  Oh !  could 
I  but  have  cast  off  this  crime  that  festered  in  my  heart :  could 
I  but  have  regained  the  innocence  that  reigned  in  my  breast  as 
I  entered  the  garden  at  Sestri;  could  I  but  have  restored  my 
tfatiiii  to  life,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  look  on  with  transport  even 
though  Bianca  were  in  his  arms. 

By  degrees  this  frenzied  fever  of  remorse  settled  into  a 
permanent  malady  of  the  mind  Into  one  of  the  most  horrible 
that  ever  poor  wretch  was  cursed  with.  Wherever  I  went,  the 
countenance  of  him  I  had  slain  appeared  to  follow  me.  Wher 
ever  I  turned  my  head  I  beheld  it  behind  me,  hideous  with  the 


mm  SPORT  Of  TOE  TOttBO 


ivoovd.  oE  Misery  md  crane  walk     oB  10  oc 

jwu  •^^•t   fvV^BI    flMk   ^^^A<^    ff   fl^^   I^HMM*-    T 


70  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

When  the  Baronet  had  finished,  there  was  an  universal 
desire  expressed  to  see  the  painting  of  this  frightful  visage. 
After  much  entreaty  the  Baronet  consented,  on  condition  that 
they  should  only  visit  it  one  by  one.  He  called  his  house 
keeper  and  gave  her  charge  to  conduct  the  gentlemen  singly  to 
the  chamber.  They  all  returned  varying  in  their  stories :  some 
affected  in  one  way,  some  in  another;  some  more,  some  lese; 
but  all  agreeing  that  there  was  a  certain  something  about  the 
painting  that  had  a  very  odd  effect  upon  the  feelings. 

I  stood  in  a  deep  bow  window  with  the  Baronet,  and  could 
not  help  expressing  my  wonder.  "After  all,"  said  I,  "there 
are  certain  mysteries  in  OUT  nature,  certain  inscrutable  impulses 
and  influences,  that  warrant  one  in  being  superstitious.  Who 
can  account  for  so  many  persons  of  different  characters  being 
thus  strangely  affected  by  a  mere  painting?" 

"And  especially  when  not  one  of  them  has  seen  it!"  said  the 
Baronet  with  a  smile. 

"How?"  exclaimed  I,  "not  seen  it?" 

"Not  one  of  them?"  replied  he,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips 
in  sign  of  secrecy.  ' '  I  saw  that  some  of  them  were  in  a  ban 
tering  vein,  and  I  did  not  choose  that  the  memento  of  the  poor 
Italian  should  be  made  a  jest  of.  So  I  gave  the  housekeeper  a 
hint  to  show  them  all  to  a  different  chamber !" 


Thus  end  the  Stories  of  the  Nervous  Gentleman. 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  SECOND. 


BUCKTHORNE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

1  Tis  a  very  good  world  that  we  live  in, 
To  lend,  or  to  spend,  or  to  give  in; 
But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  get  a  man's  own, 
Tis  the  very  worst  world,  sir,  that  ever  was  known." 

LINES  FROM  AN  INN  WINDOW. 


LITERARY  LIFE. 

AMONG  the  great  variety  of  characters  which  fall  in  a  travel 
ler's  way,  I  became  acquainted  during  my  sojourn  in  London, 
with  an  eccentric  personage  of  the  name  of  Buckthorne.  He 
was  a  literary  man,  had  lived  much  in  the  metropolis,  and  had 
acquired  a  great  deal  of  curious,  though  unprofitable  knowl 
edge  concerning  it.  He  was  a  great  observer  of  character,  and 
could  give  the  natural  history  of  every  odd  animal  that  pre 
sented  itself  in  this  great  wilderness  of  men.  Finding  me  very 
curious  about  literary  life  and  literary  characters,  he  took 
much  pains  to  gratify  my  curiosity. 

"The  literary  world  of  England,"  said  he  to  me  one  day,  "is 
made  up  of  a  number  of  little  fraternities,  each  existing  merely 
for  itself,  and  thinking  the  rest  of  the  world  created  only  to 
look  on  and  admire.  It  may  be  resembled  to  the  firmament, 
consisting  of  a  number  of  systems,  each  composed  of  its  own 
central  sun  with  its  revolving  train  of  moons  and  satellites,  all 
acting  in  the  most  harmonious  concord;  but  the  comparison 
fails  in  part,  inasmuch  as  the  literary  world  has  no  general 
concord.  Each  system  acts  independently  of  the  rest,  and 
indeed  considers  all  other  stars  as  mere  exhalations  and  tran 
sient  meteors,  beaming  for  awhile  with  false  fires,  but  doomed 
soon  to  fall  and  be  forgotten;  while  jts  own  luminaries  are  the 


72  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLK&. 

lights  of  the  universe,  destined  to  increase  in  splendor  and  to 
shine  steadily  on  to  immortality." 

"  And  pray,"  said  I,  "  how  is  a  man  to  get  a  peep  into  one  of 
these  systems  you  talk  of?  I  presume  an  intercourse  with 
authors  is  a  kind  of  intellectual  exchange,  where  one  must 
bring  his  commodities  to  barter,  and  always  give  a  quid  pro 
quo." 

"Pooh,  pooh — how  you  mistake,"  said  Buckthorne,  smiling: 
"you  must  never  think  to  become  popular  among  wits  by 
shining.  They  go  into  society  to  shine  themselves,  not  to 
admire  the  brilliancy  of  others.  I  thought  as  you  do  when  I 
first  cultivated  the  society  of  men  of  letters,  and  never  went  to 
a  blue-stocking  coterie  without  studying  my  part  beforehand 
as  diligently  as  an  actor.  The  consequence  was,  I  soon  got  the 
name  of  an  intolerable  proser,  and  should  in  a  little  while  have 
been  completely  excommunicated  had  I  not  changed  my  plan 
of  operations.  From  thenceforth  I  became  a  most  assiduous 
listener,  or  if  ever  I  were  eloquent,  it  was  tete-a-tete  with  an 
author  in  praise  of  his  own  works,  or  what  is  nearly  as  accept 
able,  in  disparagement  of  the  works  of  his  contemporaries.  If 
ever  he  spoke  favorably  of  the  productions  of  some  particular 
friend,  I  ventured  boldly  to  dissent  from  him,  and  to  prove  that 
his  friend  was  a  blockhead ;  and  much  as  people  say  of  the 
pertinacity  and  irritability  of  authors,  I  never  found  one  to 
take  offence  at  my  contradictions.  No,  no,  sir,  authors  are 
particularly  candid  in  admitting  the  faults  of  their  friends. 

"Indeed,  I  was  extremely  sparing  of  my  remarks  on  all 
modern  works,  excepting  to  make  sarcastic  observations  on  the 
most  distinguished  writers  of  the  day.  I  never  ventured  to 
praise  an  author  that  had  not  been  dead  at  least  half  a  century ; 
and  even  then  I  was  rather  cautious ;  for  you  must  know  that 
many  old  writers  have  been  enlisted  under  the  banners  of  dif 
ferent  sects,  and  their  merits  have  become  as  complete  topics 
of  party  prejudice  and  dispute,  as  the  merits  of  living  states 
men  and  politicians.  Nay,  there  have  been  whole  periods  of 
literature  absolutely  taboo'd,  to  use  a  South  Sea  phrase.  It  is, 
for  example,  as  much  as  a  man's  reputation  is  worth,  in  some 
circles,  to  say  a  word  in  praise  of  any  writers  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Second,  or  even  of  Queen  Anne;  they  being  all 
declared  to  be  Frenchmen  in  disguise." 

"  And  pray,  then,"  said  I,  "  when  am  I  to  know  that  I  am  on 
safe  grounds;  being  totally  unacquainted  with  the  literary 
landmarks  and  the  boundary  lines  of  fashionable  taste  ?" 


A  LITERARY  DINNER.  73 

"  Oh,"  replid  he,  there  is  fortunately  one  tract  of  literature 
that  forms  a  kind  of  neutral  ground,  on  which  all  the  literary 
world  meet  amicably ;  lay  down  their  weapons  and  even  run 
riot  in  their  excess  of  good  humor,  and  this  is,  the  reigns  of 
Elizabeth  and  James.  Here  you  may  praise  away  at  a  venture ; 
here  it  is  '  cut  and  come  again,'  and  the  more  obscure  the 
author,  and  the  more  quaint  and  crabbed  his  style,  the  more 
your  admiration  will  smack  of  the  real  relish  of  the  connoisseur ; 
whose  taste,  like  that  of  an  epicure,  is  always  for  game  that  has 
an  antiquated  flavor. 

"  But,"  continued  he,  "  as  you  seem  anxious  to  know  some 
thing  of  literary  society  I  will  take  an  opportunity  to  introduce 
you  to  some  coterie,  where  the  talents  of  the  day  are  assembled. 
I  cannot  promise  you,  however,  that  they  will  be  of  the  first 
order.  Somehow  or  other,  our  great  geniuses  are  not  gregari 
ous,  they  do  not  go  in  flocks,  but  fly  singly  in  general  society, 
They  prefer  mingling,  like  common  men,  with  the  multitude ; 
and  are  apt  to  carry  nothing  of  the  author  about  them  but  the 
reputation.  It  is  only  the  inferior  orders  that  herd  together, 
acquire  strength  and  importance  by  their  confederacies,  and 
bear  all  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  their  species." 


A  LITEEAEY  DINNER. 

A  FEW  days  after  this  conversation  with  Mr.  Buckthorne,  he 
called  upon  me,  and  took  me  with  him  to  a  regular  literary 
dinner.  It  was  given  by  a  great  bookseller,  or  rather  a  company 
of  booksellers,  whose  firm  surpassed  in  length  even  that  of 
Shadrach,  Meschach,  and  Abed-nego. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  between  twenty  and  thirty  guests 
assembled,  most  of  whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  Buckthorne 
explained  this  to  me  by  informing  me  that  this  was  a  "  busi 
ness  dinner,"  or  kind  of  field  day,  which  the  house  gave  about 
twice  a  year  to  its  authors.  It  is  true,  they  did  occasionally 
give  snug  dinners  to  three  or  four  literary  men  at  a  time,  but 
then  these  were  generally  select  authors ;  favorites  of  the  pub 
lic;  such  as  had  arrived  at  then"  sixth  and  seventh  editions. 
"  There  are,"  said  he,  "  certain  geographical  boundaries  in  the 
land  of  literature,  and  you  may  judge  tolerably  well  of  an 
author's  popularity,  by  the  wine  his  bookseller  gives  him.  An 
author  crosses  the  port  line  about  the  third  edition  and  gets 


74  TALE&  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

into  claret,  but  when  he  has  reached  the  sixth  and  seventh,  he 
may  revel  in  champagne  and  burgundy." 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  "how  far  may  these  gentlemen  have 
reached  that  I  see  around  me ;  are  any  of  these  claret  drinkers  ?" 

"Not  exactly,  not  exactly.  You  find  at  these  great  dinners 
the  common  steady  run  of  authors,  one,  two,  edition  men; 
or  if  any  others  are  invited  they  are  aware  that  it  is  a  kind  of 
republican  meeting. — You  understand  me — a  meeting  of  the 
republic  of  letters,  and  that  they  must  expect  nothing  but  plain 
substantial  fare." 

These  hints  enabled  me  to  comprehend  more  fully  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  table.  The  two  ends  were  occupied  by  two  partners 
of  the  house.  And  the  host  seemed  to  have  adopted  Addisou's 
ideas  as  to  the  literary  precedence  of  his  guests.  A  popular 
poet  had  the  post  of  honor,  opposite  to  whom  was  a  hot-pressed 
traveller  in  quarto,  with  plates.  A  grave-looking  antiquarian, 
who  had  produced  several  solid  works,  which  were  much  quoted 
and  little  read,  was  treated  with  great  respect,  and  seated  next 
to  a  neat,  dressy  gentleman  in  black,  who  had  written  a  thin, 
genteel,  hot-pressed  octavo  on  political  economy  that  was  getting 
into  fashion.  Several  three-volume  duodecimo  men  of  fair 
currency  were  placed  about  the  centre  of  the  table ;  while  the 
lower  end  was  taken  up  with  small  poets,  translators,  and 
authors,  who  had  not  as  yet  risen  into  much  notice. 

The  conversation  during  dinner  was  by  fits  and  starts ;  break 
ing  out  here  and  there  in  various  parts  of  the  table  hi  small 
flashes,  and  ending  in  smoke.  The  poet,  who  had  the  confidence 
of  a  man  on  good  terms  with  the  world  and  independent  of  his 
bookseller,  was  very  gay  and  brilliant,  and  said  many  clever 
things,  which  set  the  partner  next  him  in  a  roar,  and  delighted 
all  the  company.  The  other  partner,  however,  maintained  his 
sedateness,  rjid  kept  carving  on,  with  the  air  of  a  thorough 
man  of  business,  intent  upon  the  occupation  of  the  moment. 
His  gravity  was  explained  to  me  by  my  friend  Buckthorne.  He 
informed  me  that  the  concerns  of  the  house  were  admirably 
distributed  among  the  partners.  "Thus,"  for  instance,"  said 
he,  "  the  grave  gentleman  is  the  carving  partner  who  attends 
to  the  joints,  and  the  other  is  the  laughing  partner  who  attends 
to  the  jokes." 

The  general  conversation  was  chiefly  carried  on  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  table;  as  the  authors  there  seemed  to  possess  the 
greatest  courage  of  the  tongue.  As  to  the  crew  at  the  lower 
end,  if  they  did  not  make  much  figure  in  talking,  they  did 


A  LITERARY  DINNER.  75 

in  eating.  Never  was  there  a  more  determined,  inveterate, 
thoroughly-sustained  attack  on  the  trencher,  than  by  this 
phalanx  of  masticators.  When  the  cloth  was  removed,  and 
the  wine  began  to  circulate,  they  grew  very  merry  and  jocose 
among  themselves.  Their  jokes,  however,  if  by  chance  any  of 
them  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  seldom  produced 
much  effect.  Even  the  laughing  partner  did  not  seem  to  think 
it  necessary  to  honor  them  with  a  smile ;  which  my  neighbor 
Buckthorne  accounted  for,  by  informing  me  that  there  was  a 
certain  degree  of  popularity  to  be  obtained,  before  a  bookseller 
could  afford  to  laugh  at  an  author's  jokes. 

Among  this  crew  of  questionable  gentlemen  thus  seated  below 
the  salt,  my  eye  singled  out  one  in  particular.  He  was  rather 
shabbily  dressed ;  though  he  had  evidently  made  the  most  of  a 
rusty  black  coat,  and  wore  his  shirt-frill  plaited  and  puffed  out 
voluminously  at  the  bosom.  His  face  was  dusky,  but  florid — 
perhaps  a  little  too  florid,  particularly  about  the  nose,  though 
the  rosy  hue  gave  the  greater  lustre  to  a  twinkling  black  eye. 
He  had  a  little  the  look  of  a  boon  companion,  with  that  dash  of 
the  poor  devil  in  it  which  gives  an  inexpressibly  mellow  tone 
to  a  man's  humor.  I  had  seldom  seen  a  face  of  richer  promise ; 
but  never  was  promise  so  ill  kept.  He  said  nothing ;  ate  and 
drank  with  the  keen  appetite  of  a  gazetteer,  and  scarcely  stop 
ped  to  laugh  even  at  the  good  jokes  from  the  upper  end  of  the 
table.  I  inquired  who  he  was.  Buckthorne  looked  at  him 
attentively.  "Gad,"  said  he,  "I  have  seen  that  face  before, 
but  where  I  cannot  recollect.  He  cannot  be  an  author  of  any 
note.  I  suppose  some  writer  of  sermons  or  grinder  of  foreign 
travels." 

After  dinner  we  retired  to  another  room  to  take  tea  and 
coffee,  where  we  were  re-enforced  by  a  cloud  of  inferior  guests. 
Authors  of  small  volumes  in  boards,  and  pamphlets  stitched  in 
blue  paper.  These  had  not  as  yet  arrived  to  the  importance  of 
a  dinner  invitation,  but  were  invited  occasionally  to  pass  the 
evening  "in  a  friendly  way."  They  were  very  respectful  to 
the  partners,  and  indeed  seemed  to  stand  a  little  in  awe  of 
them;  but  they  paid  very  devoted  court  to  the  lady  of  the 
house,  and  were  extravagantly  fond  of  the  children.  I  looked 
round  for  the  poor  devil  author  in  the  rusty  black  coat  and 
magnificent  frill,  but  he  had  disappeared  immediately  after 
leaving  the  table;  having  a  dread,  no  doubt,  of  the  glaring 
light  of  a  drawing-room.  Finding  nothing  farther  to  interest 
my  attention,  I  took  my  departure  as  soon  as  coffee  had  been 


Y6  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

nerved,  leaving  the  port  and  the  thin,  genteel,  hot-pressed, 
octavo  gentlemen,  masters  of  the  field. 


THE  CLUB  OF  QUEER  FELLOWS. 

I  THINK  it  was  but  the  very  next  evening  that  in  coming  out 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  with  my  eccentric  friend  Buck- 
thorne,  he  proposed  to  give  me  another  peep  at  lif  e  and  charac 
ter.  Finding  me  willing  for  any  research  of  the  kind,  he  took 
me  through  a  variety  of  the  narrow  courts  and  lares  about 
€ovent  Garden,  until  we  stopped  before  a  tavern  from  which 
we  heard  the  bursts  of  merriment  of  a  jovial  party.  There 
would  be  a  loud  peal  of  laughter,  then  an  interval,  then 
another  peal;  as  if  a  prime  wag  were  telling  a  story.  After 
a  little  while  there  was  a  song,  and  at  the  close  of  each  stanza 
a  hearty  roar  and  a  vehement  thumping  on  the  table. 

"This  is  the  place, "  whispered  Buckthorne.  "  It  is  the  '  Club 
of  Queer  Fellows.'  A  great  resort  of  the  small  wits,  third-rate 
actors,  and  newspaper  critics  of  the  theatres.  Any  one  can  go 
in  on  paying  a  shilling  at  the  bar  for  the  use  of  the  club." 

We  entered,  therefore,  without  ceremony,  and  took  our  seats 
at  a  lone  table  in  a  dusky  corner  of  the  room.  The  club  was 
assembled  round  a  table,  on  which  stood  beverages  of  various 
kinds,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  individual.  The  members 
were  a  set  of  queer  fellows  indeed;  but  what  was  my  surprise 
on  recognizing  in  the  prime  wit  of  the  meeting  the  poor  devil 
author  whom  I  had  remarked  at  the  booksellers'  dinner  for  his 
promising  face  and  his  complete  taciturnity.  Matters,  how 
ever,  were  entirely  changed  with  him.  There  he  was  a  mere 
cypher:  here  he  was  lord  of  the  ascendant;  the  choice  spirit, 
the  dominant  genius.  He  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  with  his 
hat  on,  and  an  eye  beaming  even  more  luminously  than  his 
nose.  He  had  a  quiz  and  a  fillip  for  every  one,  and  a  good 
thing  on  every  occasion.  Nothing  could  be  said  or  done  with 
out  eliciting  a  spark  from  him;  and  I  solemnly  declare  I  have 
heard  much  worse  wit  even  from  noblemen.  His  jokes,  it 
must  be  confessed,  were  rather  wet,  but  they  suited  the  circle 
in  which  he  presided.  The  company  were  in  that  maudlin 
mood  when  a  little  wit  goes  a  great  way.  Every  time  he 
opened  his  lips  there  was  sure  to  be  a  roar,  and  sometimes 
before  he  had  time  to  speak. 


THE  CLUB  OF  QUEER  FELLOWS.  77 

We  were  fortunate  enough  to  encer  in  time  for  a  glee  com 
posed  by  him  expressly  for  the  club,  and  which  he  sang  with 
two  boon  companions,  who  would  have  been  worthy  subjects 
for  Hogarth's  pencil.  As  they  were  each  provided  with  a 
written  copy,  I  was  enabled  to  procure  the  reading  of  it. 

Merrily,  merrily  push  round  the  glass. 

And  merrily  troll  the  glee, 
For  he  who  won't  drink  till  he  wink  is  an  ass, 

So  neighbor  I  drink  to  thee. 
Merrily,  merrily  puddle  thy  nose, 

Until  it  right  rosy  shall  be; 
For  a  jolly  red  nose,  I  speak  under  the  rose, 

Is  a  sign  of  good  company. 

We  waited  until  the  party  broke  up,  and  no  one  but  the  wit 
remained.  He  sat  at  the  table  with  his  legs  stretched  under  it, 
and  wide  apart ;  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets ;  his  head 
drooped  upon  his  breast:  and  gazing  with  lack-lustre  counte 
nance  on  an  empty  tankard.  His  gayety  was  gone,  his  fire 
completely  quenched. 

My  companion  approached  and  startled  him  from  his  fit  of 
brown  study,  introducing  himself  on  the  strength  of  their  hav 
ing  dined  together  at  the  booksellers'. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he,  "it  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  you 
before:  your  face  is  surely  the  face  of  an  old  acquaintance, 
though  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  tell  where  I  have  known 
you." 

"Very  likely,"  said  he  with  a  smile;  "many  of  my  old 
friends  have  forgotten  me.  Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  my 
memory  in  this  instance  is  as  bad  as  your  own.  If,  however, 
it  will  assist  yow  recollection  in  any  way,  my  name  is  Thomas 
Dribble,  at  your  service." 

"What,  Tom  Dribble,  who  was  at  old  Birchell's  school  in 
Warwickshire  ?" 

' '  The  same, "  said  the  other,  coolly.  ' '  Why,  then  we  are  old 
schoolmates,  though  it's  no  wonder  you  don't  recollect  me.  I 
was  your  junior  by  several  years;  don't  you  recollect  little 
Jack  Buckthorne?" 

Here  then  ensued  a  scene  of  school-fellow  recognition ;  and  a 
world  of  talk  about  old  school  times  and  school  pranks.  Mr. 
Dribble  ended  by  observing,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "that  times 
were  sadly  changed  since  those  days." 

"Faith,  Mr.  Dribble,"  said  I,  "you  seem  quite  a  different 
man  here  from  what  you  were  at  dinner.  I  had  no  idea  that. 


78  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

you  had  so  much  stuff  in  you.  There  you  were  all  silence ;  but 
here  you  absolutely  keep  the  table  in  a  roar." 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  he,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  and 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  "I'm  a  mere  glow-worm.  I  never 
shine  by  daylight.  Besides,  it's  a  hard  thing  for  a  poor  devil 
of  an  author  to  shine  at  the  table  of  a  rich  bookseller.  Who  do 
you  think  would  laugh  at  any  thing  I  could  say,  when  I  had 
some  of  the  current  wits  of  the  day  about  me?  But  here, 
though  a  poor  devil,  I  am  among  still  poorer  devils  than  my- 
eelf ;  men  who  look  up  to  me  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  bel  esprit, 
and  all  my  jokes  pass  as  sterling  gold  from  the  mint." 

"You  surely  do  yourself  injustice,  sir,"  said  I;  "I  have  cer 
tainly  heard  more  good  things  from  you  this  evening  than  from 
any  of  those  beaux  esprits  by  whom  you  appear  to  have  been 
so  daunted." 

"Ah,  sir!  but  they  have  luck  on  their  side;  they  are  in  the 
fashion— there's  nothing  like  being  in  fashion.  A  man  that 
has  once  got  his  character  up  for  a  wit,  is  always  sure  of  a 
laugh,  say  what  he  may.  He  may  utter  as  much  nonsense  as 
he  pleases,  and  all  will  pass  current.  No  one  stops  to  question 
the  coin  of  a  rich  man ;  but  a  poor  devil  cannot  pass  off  either  a 
joke  or  a  guinea,  without  its  being  examined  on  both  sides. 
Wit  and  coin  are  always  doubted  with  a  threadbare  coat. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  he,  giving  his  hat  a  twitch  a  little 
more  on  one  side,  "for  my  part,  I  hate  your  fine  dinners; 
there's  nothing,  sir,  like  the  freedom  of  a  chop-house.  I'd 
rather,  any  time,  have  my  steak  and  tankard  among  my  own 
set,  than  drink  claret  and  eat  venison  with  your  cursed  civil, 
elegant  company,  who  never  laugh  at  a  good  joke  from  a  poor 
devil,  for  fear  of  its  being  vulgar.  A  good  joke  grows  in  a  wet 
soil ;  it  nourishes  in  low  places,  but  withers  on  your  d— d  high, 
dry  grounds.  I  once  kept  high  company,  sir,  until  I  nearly 
ruined  myself;  I  grew  so  dull,  and  vapid,  and  genteel.  Noth 
ing  saved  me  but  being  arrested  by  my  landlady  and  thrown 
into  prison ;  where  a  course  of  catch-clubs,  eight-penny  ale,  and 
poor-devil  company,  manured  my  mind  and  brought  it  back  to 
itself  again." 

As  it  was  now  growing  late  we  parted  for  the  evening; 
though  I  felt  anxious  to  know  more  of  this  practical  philoso 
pher.  I  was  glad,  therefore,  when  Buckthorne  proposed  to 
have  another  meeting  to  talk  over  old  school  times,  and  inquired 
his  school-mate's  address.  The  latter  seemed  at  first  a  little 
shy  of  naming  his  lodging? ;  but  suddenly  assuming  an  air  of 


THE  CLUB  OF  QUEER  FELLOWS.  79 

hardihood —"Green  Arbour  court,  sir,"  exclaimed  he — "num 
ber  —  in  Green  Arbour  court.  You  must  know  the  place. 
Classic  ground,  sir !  classic  ground !  It  was  there  Goldsmith 
wrote  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  I  always  like  to  live  in  literary 
haunts." 

I  was  amused  with  this  whimsical  apology  for  shabby  quar 
ters.  On  our  way  homewards  Buckthorne  assured  me  that 
this  Dribble  had  been  the  prime  wit  and  great  wag  of  the  school 
in  their  boyish  days,  and  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins  denomi 
nated  bright  geniuses.  As  he  perceived  me  curious  respecting 
his  old  school-mate,  he  promised  to  take  me  with  him  in  his 
proposed  visit  to  Green  Arbour  court. 

A  few  mornings  afterwards  he  called  upon  me,  and  we  set 
forth  on  our  expedition.  He  led  me  through  a  variety  of 
singular  alleys,  and  courts,  and  blind  passages ;  for  he  appeared 
to  be  profoundly  versed  in  all  the  intricate  geography  of  the 
metropolis.  At  length  we  came  out  upon  Fleet  Market,  and 
traversing  it,  turned  up  a  narrow  street  to  the  bottom  of  a  long 
steep  flight  of  stone  steps,  named  Break-neck  Stairs.  These, 
he  told  me,  led  up  to  Green  Arbour  court,  and  that  down  them 
poor  Goldsmith  might  many  a  time  have  risked  his  neck. 
When  we  entered  the  court,  I  could  not  but  smile  to  think  in 
what  out-of-the-way  corners  genius  produces  her  bantlings! 
And  the  muses,  those  capricious  dames,  who,  forsooth,  so  often 
refuse  to  visit  palaces,  and  deny  a  single  smile  to  votaries  in 
splendid  studies  and  gilded  drawing-rooms, — what  holes  and 
burrows  will  they  frequent  to  lavish  their  favors  on  some  ragged 
disciple ! 

This  Green  Arbour  court  I  found  to  be  a  small  square  of  tall 
and  miserable  houses,  the  very  intestines  of  which  seemed 
turned  inside  out,  to  judge  from  the  old  garments  and  frippery 
that  fluttered  from  every  window.  It  appeared  to  he  a  region 
of  washerwomen,  and  lines  were  stretched  about  the  little 
square,  on  which  clothes  were  dangling  to  dry.  Just  as  we 
entered  the  square,  a  scuffle  took  place  between  two  viragos 
about  a  disputed  right  to  a  washtub,  and  immediately  the 
whole  community  was  in  a  hubbub.  Heads  in  mob  caps  popped 
out  of  every  window,  and  such  a  clamor  of  tongues  ensued 
that  I  was  fain  to  stop  my  ears.  Every  Amazon  took  part  with 
one  or  other  of  the  disputants,  and  brandished  her  arms  drip 
ping  with  soapsuds,  and  fired  away  from  her  window  as  from 
the  embrazure  of  a  fortress;  while  the  swarms  of  children 
nestled  and  cradled  in  every  procreant  chamber  of  this  hive, 


80  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

waking  with  the  noise,  set  up  their  shrill  pipes  to  swell  the 
general  concert. 

Poor  Goldsmith !  what  a  time  must  he  have  had  of  it,  with 
his  quiet  disposition  and  nervous  habits,  penned  up  in  this  den 
of  noise  and  vulgarity.  How  strange  that  while  every  sight 
and  sound  was  sufficient  to  embitter  the  heart  and  fill  it  with 
misanthropy,  his  pen  should  be  dropping  the  honey  of  Hybla. 
Yet  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  drew  many  of  his  inimita 
ble  pictures  of  low  lif e  from  the  scenes  which  surrounded  him 
in  this  abode.  The  circumstance  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  being  obliged 
to  wash  her  husband's  two  shirts  in  a  neighbor's  house,  who 
refused  to  lend  her  washtub,  may  have  been  no  sport  of  fancy, 
but  a  fact  passing  under  his  own  eye.  His  landlandy  may 
have  sat  for  the  picture,  and  Beau  Tibbs'  scanty  wardrobe  have 
been  a  fac-simile  of  his  own. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  we  found  our  way  to  Drib 
ble's  lodgings.  They  were  up  two  pair  of  stairs,  in  a  room  that 
looked  upon  the  court,  and  when  we  entered  he  was  seated  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed,  writing  at  a  broken  table.  He  received  us, 
however,  with  a  free,  open,  poor  devil  air,  that  was  irresistible. 
It  is  true  he  did  at  first  appear  slightly  confused ;  buttoned  up 
his  waistcoat  a  little  higher  and  tucked  in  a  stray  frill  of  linen. 
But  he  recollected  himself  in  an  instant ;  gave  a  half  swagger, 
half  leer,  as  he  stepped  forth  to  receive  us ;  drew  a  three-legged 
stool  for  Mr.  Buckthorne;  pointed  me  to  a  lumbering  old 
damask  chair  that  looked  like  a  dethroned  monarch  in  exile, 
and  bade  us  welcome  to  his  garret. 

We  soon  got  engaged  in  conversation.  Buckthorne  and  he 
had  much  to  say  about  early  school  scenes ;  and  as  nothing 
opens  a  man's  heart  more  than  recollections  of  the  kind,  we 
soon  drew  from  him  a  brief  outline  of  his  literary  career. 


THE  POOE  DEVIL  AUTHOE. 

I  BEGAN  life  unluckily  by  being  the  wag  and  bright  fellow  at 
school ;  and  I  had  the  farther  misfortune  of  becoming  the  great 
genius  of  my  native  village.  My  father  was  a  country  attor 
ney,  and  intended  that  I  should  succeed  him  in  business-,  but 
I  had  too  much  genius  to  study,  and  he  was  too  fond  of  my 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  81 

genius  to  force  it  into  the  traces.  So  I  fell  into  bad  company 
and  took  to  bad  habits.  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  mean  that  I 
fell  into  the  company  of  village  literati  and  village  blues,  and 
took  to  writing  village  poetry. 

It  was  quite  the  fashion  in  the  village  to  be  literary.  We 
had  a  little  knot  of  choice  spirits  who  assembled  frequently 
together,  formed  ourselves  into  a  Literary,  Scientific,  and 
Philosophical  Society,  and  fancied  ourselves  the  most  learned 
philos  in  existence.  Every  one  had  a  great  character  assigned 
him,  suggested  by  some  casual  habit  or  affectation.  One  heavy 
fellow  drank  an  enormous  quantity  of  tea ;  rolled  in  his  arm 
chair,  talked  sententiously,  pronounced  dogmatically,  and  was 
considered  a  second  Dr.  Johnson ;  another,  who  happened  to  be 
a  curate,  uttered  coarse  jokes,  wrote  doggerel  rhymes,  and  was 
the  Swift  of  our  association.  Thus  we  had  also  our  Popes  and 
Goldsmiths  and  Addisons,  and  a  blue-stocking  lady,  whose 
drawing-room  we  frequented,  who  corresponded  about  nothing 
with  all  the  world,  and  wrote  letters  with  the  stiffness  and  for 
mality  of  a  printed  book,  was  cried  up  as  another  Mrs.  Monta 
gu.  I  was,  by  common  consent,  the  juvenile  prodigy,  the 
poetical  youth,  the  great  genius,  the  pride  and  hope  of  the 
village,  through  whom  it  was  to  become  one  day  as  celebrated 
as  Stratf  ord-on-Avon. 

My  father  died  and  left  me  his  blessing  and  his  business. 
His  blessing  brought  no  money  into  my  pocket ;  and  as  to  his 
buisness  it  soon  deserted  me :  for  I  was  busy  writing  poetry, 
and  could  not  attend  to  law ;  and  my  clients,  though  they  had 
great  respect  for  my  talents,  had  no  faith  in  a  poetical  attorney. 

I  lost  my  business  therefore,  spent  my  money,  and  finished 
my  poem.  It  was  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,  and  was  cried 
up  to  the  skies  by  the  whole  circle.  The  Pleasures  of  Imagina 
tion,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  and  the  Pleasures  of-  Memory, 
though  each  had  placed  its  author  in  the  first  rank  of  poets, 
were  blank  prose  in  comparison.  Our  Mrs.  Montagu  would  cry 
over  it  from  beginning  to  end.  It  was  pronounced  by  all  the 
members  of  the  Literary,  Scientific,  and  Philosophical  Society 
the  greatest  poem  of  the  age,  and  all  anticipated  the  noise  it 
would  make  in  the  great  world.  There  was  not  a  doubt  but 
the  London  booksellers  would  be  mad  after  it,  and  the  only 
fear  of  my  friends  was,  that  I  would  make  a  sacrifice  by  sell 
ing  it  too  cheap.  Every  time  they  talked  the  matter  over  they 
increased  the  price.  They  reckoned  up  the  great  sums  given 
for  the  poems  of  certain  popular  writers,  and  determined  that 


82  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

mine  was  worth  more  than  all  put  together,  and  ought  to  be 
paid  for  accordingly.  For  my  part,  I  was  modest  in  my  ex 
pectations,  and  determined  that  I  would  be  satisfied  with  a 
thousand  guineas.  So  I  put  my  poem  in  my  pocket  and  set  off 
for  London. 

My  journey  was  joyous.  My  heart  was  light  as  my  purse, 
and  my  head  full  of  anticipations  of  fame  and  fortune.  With 
what  swelling  pride  did  I  cast  my  eyes  upon  old  London  from 
the  heights  of  Highgate.  I  was  like  a  general  looking  down 
upon  a  place  he  expects  to  conquer.  The  great  metropolis  lay 
stretched  before  me,  buried  under  a  home-made  cloud  of  murky 
smoke,  that  wrapped  it  from  the  brightness  of  a  sunny  day, 
and  formed  for  it  a  kind  of  artificial  bad  weather.  At  the  out 
skirts  of  the  city,  away  to  the  west,  the  smoke  gradually 
decreased  until  all  was  clear  and  sunny,  and  the  view  stretched 
uninterrupted  to  the  blue  line  of  the  Kentish  Hills. 

My  eye  turned  fondly  to  where  the  mighty  cupola  of  St. 
Paul's  swelled  dimly  through  this  misty  chaos,  and  I  pictured 
to  myself  the  solemn  realm  of  learning  that  lies  about  its  base. 
How  soon  should  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy  throw  this  world 
of  booksellers  and  printers  into  a  bustle  of  business  and  delight ! 
How  soon  should  I  hear  my  name  repeated  by  printers'  devils 
throughout  Pater  Noster  Eow,  and  Angel  Court,  and  Ave 
Maria  Lane,  until  Amen  corner  should  echo  back  the  sound ! 

Arrived  in  town,  I  repaired  at  once  to  the  most  fashionable 
publisher.  Every  new  author  patronizes  him  of  course.  In 
fact,  it  had  been  determined  in  the  village  circle  that  he  should 
be  the  fortunate  man.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vaingloriously  I 
walked  the  streets ;  my  head  was  in  the  clouds.  I  felt  the  airs 
of  heaven  playing  about  it,  and  fancied  it  already  encircled  by 
a  halo  of  literary  glory.  As  I  passed  by  the  windows  of  book- 
Bhops,  I  anticipated  the  time  when  my  work  would  be  shining 
among  the  hotpressed  wonders  of  the  day;  and  my  face, 
scratched  on  copper,  or  cut  in  wood,  figuring  in  fellowship 
with  those  of  Scott  and  Byron  and  Moore. 

When  I  applied  at  the  publisher's  house  there  was  something 
in  the  loftiness  of  my  air,  and  the  dinginess  of  my  dress,  that 
struck  the  clerks  with  reverence.  They  doubtless  took  me  for 
Borne  person  of  consequence,  probably  a  digger  of  Greek  roots, 
or  a  penetrator  of  pyramids.  A  proud  man  in  a  dirty  shirt  is 
always  an  imposing  character  in  the  world  of  letters ;  one  must 
feel  intellectually  secure  before  he  can  venture  to  dress  shab 
bily;  none  but  a  great  scholar  or  a  great  genius  dares  to  be 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  83 

dirty ;  so  I  was  ushered  at  once  to  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of 
this  high  priest  of  Minerva. 

The  bublishing  of  books  is  a  very  different  affair  now-a-days 
from  what  it  was  in  the  time  of  Bernard  Lintot.  I  found  the 
publisher  a  fashionably -dressed  man,  in  an  elegant  drawing- 
room,  furnished  with  sofas  and  portraits  of  celebrated  authors, 
and  cases  of  splendidly  bound  books.  He  was  writing  letters 
at  an  elegant  table.  This  was  transacting  business  in  style. 
The  place  seemed  suited  to  the  magnificent  publications  that 
issued  from  it.  I  rejoiced  at  the  choice  I  had  made  of  a  pub 
lisher,  for  I  always  liked  to  encourage  men  of  taste  and  spirit. 

I  stepped  up  to  the  table  with  the  lofty  poetical  port  that  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  maintain  in  our  village  circle ;  though 
I  threw  in  it  something  of  a  patronizing  air,  such  as  one  feels 
when  about  to  make  a  man's  fortune.  The  publisher  paused 
with  his  pen  in  his  hand,  and  seemed  waiting  in  mute  suspense 
to  know  what  was  to  be  announced  by  so  singular  an  appari 
tion. 

I  put  him  at  his  ease  in  a  moment,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  but  to 
come,  see,  and  conquer.  I  made  known  my  name,  and  the 
name  of  my  poem ;  produced  my  precious  roll  of  blotted  manu 
script,  laid  it-  on  the  table  with  an  emphasis,  and  told  him  at 
once,  to  save  time  and  come  directly  to  the  point,  the  price 
was  one  thousand  guineas. 

I  had  given  him  no  tune  to  speak,  nor  did  he  seem  so  in 
clined.  He  continued  looking  at  me  for  a  moment  with  an  air 
of  whimsical  perplexity ;  scanned  me  from  head  to  foot ;  looked 
down  at  the  manuscript,  then  up  again  at  me,  then  pointed  to 
a  chair ;  and  whistling  softly  to  himself,  went  on  writing  his 
letter. 

I  sat  for  some  time  waiting  his  reply,  supposing  he  was  mak 
ing  up  his  mind;  but  he  only  paused  occasionally -to  take  a 
fresh  dip  of  ink ;  to  stroke  his  chin  or  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and 
then  resumed  his  writing.  It  was  evident  his  mind  was  in 
tently  occupied  upon  some  other  subject ;  but  I  had  no  idea 
that  any  other  subject  should  be  attended  to  and  my  poem  lie 
unnoticed  on  the  table.  I  had  supposed  that  every  thing 
would  make  way  for  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy. 

My  gorge  at  length  rose  within  me.  I  took  up  my  manu 
script  ;  thi-ust  it  into  my  pocket,  and  walked  ovit  of  the  room ; 
making  some  noise  as  I  went,  to  let  my  departure  be  heard. 
The  publisher,  however,  was  too  much  busied  in  minor  con 
cerns  to  notice  it.  I  was  suffered  to  walk  down-stairs  with- 


84  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

out  being  called  back.  I  sallied  forth  into  the  street,  but  n« 
clerk  was  sent  after  me,  nor  did  the  publisher  call  after  me 
from  the  drawing-room  window.  I  have  been  told  since,  that 
he  considered  me  either  a  madman  or  a  fool.  I  leave  you  to 
judge  now  much  he  was  in  the  wrong  in  his  opinion. 

When  I  turned  the  corner  my  crest  fell.  I  cooled  down  in 
my  pride  and  my  expectations,  and  reduced  my  terms  with 
the  next  bookseller  to  whom  I  applied.  I  had  no  better  suc 
cess  :  nor  with  a  third :  nor  with  a  fourth.  I  then  desired  the 
booksellers  to  make  an  offer  themselves;  but  the  deuce  an 
offer  would  they  make.  They  told  me  poetry  was  a  mere  drug ; 
everybody  wrote  poetry ;  the  market  was  overstocked  with  it. 
And  then,  they  said,  the  title  of  my  poem  was  not  taking :  that 
pleasures  of  all  kinds  were  worn  threadbare ;  nothing  but  hor 
rors  did  now-a-days,  and  even  these  were  almost  worn  out. 
Tales  of  pirates,  robbers,  and  bloody  Turks  might  answer  toler 
ably  well;  but  then  they  must  come  from  some  established 
well-known  name,  or  the  public  would  not  look  at  them. 

At  last  I  offered  to  leave  my  poem  with  a  bookseller  to  read 
it  and  judge  for  himself.  "Why,  really,  my  dear  Mr. — a— a — 
I  forget  your  name,"  said  he,  cutting  an  eye  at  my  rusty  coat 
and  shabby  gaiters,  "  really,  sir,  we  are  so  pressed  with  busi 
ness  just  now,  and  have  so  many  manuscripts  on  hand  to 
read,  that  we  have  not  time  to  look  at  any  new  production, 
but  if  you  can  call  again  in  a  week  or  two,  or  say  the  middle 
of  next  month,  we  may  be  able  to  look  over  your  writings  and 
give  you  an  answer.  Don't  forget,  the  month  after  next — 
good  morning,  sir — happy  to  see  you  any  time  you  are  passing 
this  way" — so  saying  he  bowed  me  out  in  the  civilest  way 
imaginable.  In  short,  sir,  instead  of  an  eager  competition  to 
secure  my  poem  I  could  not  even  get  it  read  !  In  the  mean 
time  I  was  harassed  by  letters  from  my  friends,  wanting  to 
know  when  the  work  was  to  appear ;  who  was  to  be  my  pub 
lisher  ;  but  above  allthings  warning  me  not  to  let  it  go  too  cheap. 

There  was  but  one  alternative  left.  I  determined  to  publish 
the  poem  myself;  and  to  have  my  triumph  over  the  book 
sellers,  when  it  should  become  the  fashion  of  the  day.  I  ac 
cordingly  published  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy  and  ruined 
myself.  Excepting  the  copies  sent  to  the  reviews,  and  to  my 
friends  in  the  country,  not  one,  I  believe,  ever  left  the  book 
seller's  warehouse.  The  printer's  bill  drained  my  purse,  and 
the  only  notice  that  was  taken  of  my  work  was  contained  in 
the  advertisements  paid  for  by  myself. 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  85 

I  could  have  borne  all  this,  and  have  attributed  it  as  usual  to 
the  mismanagement  of  the  publisher,  or  the  want  of  taste  in  the 
public:  and  could  have  made  the  usual  appeal  to  posterity: 
but  my  village  friends  would  not  let  me  rest  in  quiet.  They 
were  picturing  me  to  themselves  feasting  with  the  great,  com 
muning  with  the  literary,  and  in  the  high  course  of  fortune  and 
renown.  Every  little  while,  some  one  came  to  me  with  a  letter 
of  introduction  from  the  village  circle,  recommending  him  to 
my  attentions,  and  requesting  that  I  would  make  him  known 
in  society ;  with  a  hint  that  an  introduction  to  the  house  of  a 
celebrated  literary  nobleman  would  be  extremely  agreeable. 

I  determined,  therefore,  to  change  my  lodgings,  drop  my  cor 
respondence,  and  disappear  altogether  from  the  view  of  my 
village  admirers.  Besides,  I  was  anxious  to  make  one  more 
poetic  attempt.  I  was  by  no  means  disheartened  by  the  failure 
of  my  first.  My  poem  was  evidently  too  didactic.  The  public 
was  wise  enough.  It  no  longer  read  for  instruction.  "They 
want  horrors,  do  they?"  said  I,  "I'faith,  then  they  shall  have 
enough  of  them. "  So  I  looked  out  for  some  quiet  retired  place, 
where  I  might  be  out  of  reach  of  my  friends,  and  have  leisure 
to  cook  up  some  delectable  dish  of  poetical  "hell-broth." 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  place  to  my  mind,  when 
chance  threw  me  in  the  way  of  Canonbury  Castle.  It  is  an 
ancient  brick  tower,  hard  by  "merry  Islington;"  the  remains 
of  a  hunting-seat  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  where  she  took  the  plea 
sures  of  the  country,  when  the  neighborhood  was  all  wood 
land.  What  gave  it  particular  interest  in  my  eyes,  was  the 
circumstance  that  it  had  been  the  residence  of  a  poet.  It  was 
here  Goldsmith  resided  when  he  wrote  his  Deserted  Village. 
I  was  shown  the  very  apartment.  It  was  a  relique  of  the 
original  style  of  the  castle,  with  pannelled  wainscots  and  gothic 
windows.  I  Avas  pleased  with  its  air  of  antiquity,  and  with  its 
having  been  the  residence  of  poor  Goldy.  ' '  Goldsmith  was  a 
pretty  poet,"  said  I  to  myself,  "a  very  pretty  poet;  though 
rather  of  the  old  school.  He  did  not  think  and  feel  so  strongly 
as  is  the  fashion  now-a-days ;  but  had  he  li ved  in  these  times 
of  hot  hearts  and  hot  heads,  he  would  have  written  quite  dif 
ferently." 

In  a  few  days  I  was  quietly  established  in  my  new  quarters ; 
my  books  all  arranged,  my  writing  desk  placed  by  a  window 
looking  out  into  the  field;  and  I  felt  as  snug  as  Robinson 
Crusoe,  when  he  had  finished  his  bower.  For  several  days  I 
enjoyed  all  the  novelty  of  change  and  the  charms  which  grace 


86  TALES  0V  A   TRAVELLER. 

a  new  lodgings  before  one  has  found  out  their  defects.  I 
rambled  about  the  fields  where  I  fancied  Goldsmith  had  ram 
bled.  I  explored  merry  Islington;  ate  my  solitary  dinner  at 
the  Black  Bull,  which  according  to  tradition  was  a  country 
seat  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  would  sit  and  sip  my  wine  and 
muse  on  old  times  in  a  quaint  old  room,  where  many  a  council 
had  been  held. 

All  this  did  very  well  for  a  few  days :  I  was  stimulated  by 
novelty ;  inspired  by  the  associations  awakened  in  my  mind  by 
these  curious  haunts,  and  began  to  think  I  felt  the  spirit  of 
composition  stirring  within  me;  but  Sunday  came,  and  with  it 
the  whole  city  world,  swarming  about  Canonbury  Castle.  I 
could  not  open  my  window  but  I  was  stunned  with  shouts  and 
noises  from  the  cricket  ground.  The  late  quiet  road  beneath 
my  window  was  alive  with  the  tread  of  feet  and  clack  of 
tongues;  and  to  complete  my  misery,  I  found  that  my  quiet 
retreat  was  absolutely  a  "  show  house !"  the  tower  and  its  con 
tents  being  shown  to  strangers  at  sixpence  a  head. 

There  was  a  perpetual  tramping  up-stairs  of  citizens  and 
their  families,  to  look  about  the  country  from  the  top  of  the 
tower,  and  to  take  a  peep  at  the  city  through  the  telescope,  to 
try  if  they  could  discern  their  own  chimneys.  And  then,  in 
the  midst  of  a  vein  of  thought,  or  a  moment  of  inspiration,  I 
was  interrupted,  and  all  my  ideas  put  to  flight,  by  my  intolera 
ble  landlady's  tapping  at  the  door,  and  asking  me,  if  I  would 
"  jist  please  to  let  a  lady  and  gentleman  come  in  to  take  a  look 
at  Mr.  Goldsmith's  room." 

If  you  know  anything  what  an  author's  study  is,  and  what 
an  author  is  himself,  you  must  know  that  there  was  no  stand 
ing  this.  I  put  a  positive  interdict  on  my  room's  being  ex 
hibited;  but  then  it  was  shown  when  I  was  absent,  and  my 
papers  put  in  confusion;  and  on  returning  home  one  day,  I 
absolutely  found  a  cursed  tradesman  and  his  daughters  gaping 
over  my  manuscripts;  and  my  landlady  in  a  panic  at  my 
appearance.  I  tried  to  make  out  a  little  longer  by  taking  the 
key  in  my  pocket,  but  it  would  not  do.  I  overheard  mine 
hostess  one  day  telling  some  of  her  customers  on  the  stairs 
that  the  room  was  occupied  by  an  author,  who  was  always  in 
a  tantrum  if  interrupted ;  and  I  immediately  perceived,  by  a 
slight  noise  at  the  door,  that  they  were  peeping  at  me  through 
the  key-hole.  By  the  head  of  Apollo,  but  this  was  quite  too 
much !  with  all  my  eagerness  for  fame,  and  my  ambition  of 
the  stare  of  the  million,  I  had  no  idea  of  being  exhibited  by 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  87 

retail,  at  sixpence  a  head,  and  that  through  a  key-hole.  So  I 
hade  adieu  to  Canonbury  Castle,  merry  Islington,  and  the 
haunts  of  poor  Goldsmith,  without  having  advanced  a  single 
line  in  my  labors. 

My  next  quarters  were  at  a  small  white-washed  cottage, 
which  stands  not  far  from  Hempstead,  just  on  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  looking  over  Chalk  farm,  and  Camden  town,  remarkable 
for  the  rival  houses  of  Mother  Red  Cap  and  Mother  Black  Cap; 
and  so  across  Crackskull  common  to  the  distant  city. 

The  cottage  is  in  no  wise  remarkable  in  itself;  but  I  regarded  \ 
it  with  reverence,  for  it  had  been  the  asylum  of  a  persecuted 
author.  Hither  poor  Steele  had  retreated  and  lain  perdue 
when  persecuted  by  creditors  and  bailiffs;  those  immemorial 
plagues  of  authors  and  free-spirited  gentlemen :  and  here  he  had 
written  many  numbers  of  the  Spectator.  It  was  from  hence, 
too,  that  he  had  despatched  those  little  notes  to  his  lady,  so 
full  of  affection  and  whimsicality;  in  which  the  fond  husband, 
the  careless  gentleman,  and  the  shifting  spendthrift,  were  so 
oddly  blended.  I  thought,  as  I  first  eyed  the  window^  of  his 
apartment,  that  I  could  sit  within  it  and  write  volumes. 

No  such  thing!  It  was  haymaking  season,  and,  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  immediately  opposite  the  cottage  was  a  little 
alehouse  with  the  sign  of  the  load  of  hay.  Whether  it  was 
there  in  Steele's  time  or  not  I  cannot  say ;  but  it  set  all  attempt 
at  conception  or  inspiration  at  defiance.  It  was  the  resort  of 
all  the  Irish  haymakers  who  mow  the  broad  fields  in  the  neigh 
borhood;  and  of  drovers  and  teamsters  who  travel  that  road. 
Here  would  they  gather  in  the  endless  summer  twilight,  or  by 
the  light  of  the  harvest  moon,  and  sit  round  a  table  at  the 
door;  and  tipple,  and  laugh,  and  quarrel,  and  fight,  and  sing 
drowsy  songs,  and  dawdle  away  the  hours  until  the  deep 
solemn  notes  of  St.  Paul's  clock  would  warn  the  varlets  home. 

In  the  day-time  I  was  still  less  able  to  write.  It  was  broad 
summer.  The  haymakers  were  at  work  in  the  fields,  and 
the  perfume  of  the  new  -  mown  hay  brought  with  it  the 
recollection  of  my  native  fields.  So  instead  of  remaining  in 
my  room  to  write,  I  went  wandering  about  Primrose  Hill  and 
Hempstead  Heights  and  Shepherd's  Field,  and  all  those  Arca 
dian  scenes  so  celebrated  by  London  bards.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  many  delicious  hours  I  have  passed  lying  on  the  cocks  of 
new-mown  hay,  on  the  pleasant  slopes  of  some  of  those  hill*, 
inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  fields,  while  the  summer  fly 
buzzed  above  me,  or  the  grasshopper  leaped  into  my  bosom: 


88  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

and  how  I  have  gazed  with  half -shut  eye  upon  the  smoky  mass 
of  London,  and  listened  to  the  distant  sound  of  its  population, 
and  pitied  the  poor  sons  of  earth  toiling  in  its  bowels,  like 
Gnomes  in  "  the  dark  gold  mine." 

People  may  say  what  they  please  about  Cockney  pastorals ; 
but  after  all,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  rural  beauty  about  the 
western  vicinity  of  London;  and  any  one  that  has  looked 
down  upon  the  valley  of  Westend,  with  its  soft  bosom  of  green 
pasturage,  lying  open  to  the  south,  and  dotted  with  cattle ;  the 
steeple  of  Hempstead  rising  among  rich  groves  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  and  the  learned  height  of  Harrow  in  the  distance; 
will  confess  that  never  has  he  seen  a  more  absolutely  rural 
landscape  in  the  vicinity  of  a  great  metropolis. 

Still,  however,  I  found  myself  not  a  whit  the  better  off  for 
my  frequent  change  of  lodgings;  and  I  began  to  discover  that 
in  literature,  as  in  trade,  the  old  proverb  holds  good,  "a  roll 
ing  stone  gathers  no  moss." 

The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  country  played  the  very  venge 
ance  with  me.  I  could  not  mount  my  fancy  into  the  termagant 
vein.  I  could  not  conceive,  amidst  the  smiling  landscape,  a 
scene  of  blood  and  murder ;  and  the  smug  citizens  in  breeches 
and  gaiters,  put  all  ideas  of  heroes  and  bandits  out  of  my  brain. 
I  could  thing  of  nothing  but  dulcet  subjects.  "  The  pleasures 
of  spring" — "the  pleasures  of  solitude" — "the  pleasures  of 
tranquillity"— "the  pleasures  of  sentiment" — nothing  but  pleas 
ures;  and  I  had  the  painful  experience  of  "the  pleasures  of 
melancholy"  too  strongly  in  my  recollection  to  be  beguiled  by 
them. 

Chance  at  length  befriended  me.  I  had  frequently  in  my 
ramblings  loitered  about  Hempstead  Hill ;  which  is  a  kind  of 
Parnassus  of  the  metropolis.  At  such  times  I  occasionally 
took  my  dinner  at  Jack  Straw's  Castle.  It  is  a  country  inn  so 
named.  The  very  spot  where  that  notorious  rebel  and  his  fol 
lowers  held  their  council  of  war.  It  is  a  favorite  resort  of  citi 
zens  when  rurally  inclined,  as  it  commands  fine  fresh  air  and  a 
good  view  of  the  city. 

I  sat  one  day  in  the  public  room  of  this  inn,  ruminating  over 
a  beafsteak  and  a  pint  of  port,  when  my  imagination  kindled 
up  with  ancient  and  heroic  images.  I  had  long  wanted  a 
theme  and  a  hero ;  both  suddenly  broke  upon  my  mind ;  I  de 
termined  to  write  a  poem  on  the  history  of  Jack  Straw.  I  was 
so  full  of  my  subject  that  I  was  fearful  of  being  anticipated. 
I  wondered  that  none  of  the  poets  of  the  day,  in  their  re- 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  89 

searches  after  ruffian  heroes,  had  ever  thought  of  Jack  Straw. 
I  went  to  work  pell-mell,  blotted  several  sheets  of  paper  with 
choice  floating  thoughts,  and  battles,  and  descriptions,  to  be 
ready  at  a  moment's  warning.  In  a  few  days'  time  I  sketched 
out  the  skeleton  of  my  poem,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  to 
give  it  flesh  and  blood.  I  used  to  take  my  manuscript  and 
stroll  about  Caen  Wood,  and  read  aloud ;  and  would  dine  at  the 
castle,  by  way  of  keeping  up  the  vein  of  thought. 

I  was  taking  a  meal  there,  one  day,  at  a  rather  late  hour,  in 
the  public  room.  There  was  no  other  company  but  one  man, 
who  sat  enjoying  his  pint  of  port  at  a  window,  and  noticing 
the  passers-by.  He  was  dressed  in  a  green  shooting  coat.  His 
countenance  was  strongly  marked.  He  had  a  hooked  nose,  a 
romantic  eye,  excepting  that  it  had  something  of  a  squint ;  and 
altogether,  as  I  thought,  a  poetical  style  of  head.  I  was  quite 
taken  with  the  man,  for  you  must  know  I  am  a  little  of  a 
physiognomist :  I  set  him  down  at  once  for  either  a  poet  or  a 
philosopher. 

As  I  like  to  make  new  acquaintances,  considering  every  man 
a  volume  of  human  nature,  I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with 
the  stranger,  who,  I  was  pleased  to  find,  was  by  no  means  dif 
ficult  of  access.  After  I  had  dined,  I  joined  him  at  the  win 
dow,  and  we  became  so  sociable  that  I  proposed  a  bottle  of 
wine  together ;  to  which  he  most  cheerfully  assented. 

I  was  too  full  of  my  poem  to  keep  long  quiet  on  the  subject, 
and  began  to  talk  about  the  origin  of  the  tavern,  and  the  his 
tory  of  Jack  Straw.  I  found  my  new  acquaintance  to  be  per 
fectly  at  home  on  the  topic,  and  to  jump  exactly  with  my  hu 
mor  in  every  respect.  I  became  elevated  by  the  wine  and  the 
conversation.  In  the  fullness  of  an  author's  feelings,  I  told  him 
of  my  projected  poem,  and  repeated  some  passages ;  and  he  was 
in  raptures.  He  was  evidently  of  a  strong  poetical  turn. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  filling  my  glass  at  the  same  time,  "our  poets 
don't  look  at  home.  I  don't  see  why  we  need  go  out  of  old 
England  for  robbers  and  rebels  to  write  about.  I  like  your  Jack 
Straw,  sir.  He's  a  home-made  hero.  I  like  him,  sir.  I  like 
him  exceedingly.  He's  English  to  the  back  bone,  damme. 
Give  me  honest  old  England,  after  all ;  them's  my  sentiments, 
sir!" 

"I  honor  your  sentiments,"  cried  I  zealously.  "They  are 
exactly  my  own.  An  English  ruffian  for  poetry  is  as  good  a 
ruffian  for  poetry  as  any  in  Italy  or  Germany,  or  the  Archi 
pelago;  but  it  is  hard  to  make  our  poets  think  so." 


90  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

"  More  shame  for  them  1"  replied  the  man  in  green.  "  What 
a  plague  would  they  have  ?"  What  have  we  to  do  with  their 
Archipelagos  of  Italy  and  Germany?  Haven't  we  heaths  and 
commons  and  high-ways  on  our  own  little  island?  Aye,  and 
stout  fellows  to  pad  the  hoof  over  them  too?  Come,  sir,  my 
service  to  you — I  agree  with  you  perfectly." 

"Poets  in  old  times  had  right  notions  on  this  subject,"  con 
tinued  I ;  "  witness  the  fine  old  ballads  about  Robin  Hood,  Allen 
A'Dale,  and  other  staunch  blades  of  yore.*' 

"Right,  sir,  light,"  interrupted  he.  "Robin  Hood!  He  was 
the  lad  to  cry  stand  1  to  a  man,  and  never  flinch." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  I,  "they  had  famous  bands  of  robbers  in  the 
good  old  times.  Those  were  glorious  poetical  days.  The  merry 
crew  of  Sherwood  Forest,  who  led  such  a  roving  picturesque 
life,  'under  the  greenwood  tree.'  I  have  often  wished  to  visit 
their  haunts,  and  tread  the  scenes  of  the  exploits  of  Friar  Tuck, 
and  Clym  of  the  Clough,  and  Sir  William  of  Coudeslie." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  the  gentleman  in  green,  "we  have  had  sev 
eral  very  pretty  gangs  since  their  day.  Those  gallant  dogs  that 
kept  about  the  great  heaths  in  the  neighborhood  of  London ; 
about  Bagshot,  and  Hounslow,  and  Black  Heath,  for  instance — 
come,  sir,  my  service  to  you.  You  don't  drink." 

"I  suppose,"  said  I,  emptying  my  glass — "I  suppose  you 
have  heard  of  the  famous  Turpin,  who  was  born  in  this  very 
village  of  Hempstead,  and  who  used  to  lurk  with  his  gang  in 
Epping  Forest,  about  a  hundred  years  since." 

"Have  I?"  cried  he — "to  be  sure  I  have!  A  hearty  old 
blade  that ;  sound  as  pitch.  Old  Turpentine ! — as  we  used  to 
call  him.  A  famous  fine  fellow,  sir." 

"  Well,  sir,"  continued  I,  "I  have  visited  Waltham  Abbey, 
and  Chinkford  Church,  merely  from  the  stories  I  heard,  when 
a  boy,  of  his  exploits  there,  and  I  have  searched  Epping  Forest 
for  the  cavern  where  he  used  to  conceal  himself.  You  must 
know,"  added  I,  "that  I  am  a  sort  of  amateur  of  highwaymen. 
They  were  dashing,  daring  fellows ;  the  last  apologies  that  we 
had  for  the  knight  errants  of  yore.  Ah,  sir !  the  country  has 
been  sinking  gradually  into  tameness  and  commonplace.  We 
are  losing  the  old  English  spirit.  The  bold  knights  of  the  post 
have  all  dwindled  down  into  lurking  footpads  and  sneaking 
pick-pockets.  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  dashing  gentleman 
like  robbery  committed  now-a-days  on  the  king's  highway.  A 
man  may  roll  from  one  end  of  England  to  the  other  in  a  drowsy 
coach  or  jingling  post-chaise  without  any  other  adventure  than 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  91 

that  of  being  occasionally  overturned,  sleeping  in  damp  sheets, 
or  having  an  ill-cooked  dinner. 

' '  We  hear  no  more  of  public  coaches  being  stopped  and  robbed 
by  a  well-mounted  gang  of  resolute  fellows  with  pistols  in  their 
hands  and  crapes  over  their  faces.  What  a  pretty  poetical  in 
cident  was  it  for  example  in  domestic  life,  for  a  family  car 
riage,  on  its  way  to  a  country  seat,  to  be  attacked  about  dusk; 
the  old  gentleman  eased  of  his  purse  and  watch,  the  ladies  of 
their  necklaces  and  ear-rings,  by  a  politely-spoken  highwayman 
on  a  blood  mare,  who  afterwards  leaped  the  hedge  and  galloped 
across  the  country,  to  the  admiration  of  Miss  Carolina  the 
daughter,  who  would  write  a  long  and  romantic  account  of  the 
adventure  to  her  friend  Miss  Juliana  in  town.  Ah,  sir!  we 
meet  with  nothing  of  such  incidents  now-a-days." 

"That,  sir," — said  my  companion,  taking  advantage  of  a 
pause,  when  I  stopped  to  recover  breath  and  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine,  which  he  had  just  poured  out — "that,  sir,  craving  your 
pardon,  is  not  owing  to  any  want  of  old  English  pluck.  It  is 
the  effect  of  this  cursed  system  of  banking.  People  do  not 
travel  with  bags  of  gold  as  they  did  formerly.  They  have 
post  notes  and  drafts  on  bankers.  To  rob  a  coach  is  like  catch 
ing  a  crow;  where  you  have  nothing  but  carrion  flesh  and 
feathers  for  your  pains.  But  a  coach  in  old  times,  sir,  was 
as  rich  as  a  Spanish  galleon.  It  turned  out  the  yellow  boys 
bravely;  and  a  private  carriage  was  a  cool  hundred  or  two 
at  least." 

I  cannot  express  how  much  I  was  delighted  with  the  sallies 
of  my  new  acquaintance.  He  told  me  that  he  often  frequented 
the  castle,  and  would  be  glad  to  know  more  of  me ;  and  I  prom 
ised  myself  many  a  pleasant  afternoon  with  him,  when  I  should 
read  him  my  poem,  as  it  proceeded,  and  benefit  by  his  remarks ; 
for  it  was  evident  he  had  the  true  poetical  feeling. 

"Come,  sir!"  said  he,  pushing  the  bottle,  "Damme,  I  like 
you ! — You're  a  man  after  my  own  heart ;  I'm  cursed  slow  in 
making  new  acquaintances  in  general.  One  must  stand  on  the 
reserve,  you  know.  But  when  I  meet  with  a  man  of  your  kid 
ney,  damme  my  heart  jumps  at  once  to  him.  Them's  my  sen 
timents,  sir.  Come,  sir,  here's  Jack  Straw's  health!  I  pre 
sume  one  can  drink  it  now-a-days  without  treason !" 

"  "With  all  my  heart,"  said  I  gayly,  "and  Dick  Turpin's  into 
the  Tmrgain !" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  man  in  green,  "those  are  the  kind  of  men 
for  poetry.  The  Newgate  kalendar,  sir !  the  Newgate  kalendar 


92  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

is  your  only  reading  I  There's  the  place  to  look  for  bold  deeds 
and  dashing  fellows." 

We  were  so  much  pleased  with  each  other  that  we  sat  until 
a  late  hour.  I  insisted  on  paying  the  bill,  for  both  my  purse 
and  my  heart  were  full ;  and  I  agreed  that  he  should  pay  the 
score  at  our  next  meeting.  As  the  coaches  had  all  gone  that 
run  between  Hempstead  and  London  he  had  to  return  on  foot, 
He  was  so  delighted  with  the  idea  of  my  poem  that  he  could 
talk  of  nothing  else.  He  made  me  repeat  such  passages  as  I 
could  remember,  and  though  I  did  it  in  a  very  mangled  man 
ner,  having  a  wretched  memory,  yet  he  was  in  raptures. 

Every  now  and  then  he  would  break  out  with  some  scrap 
which  he  would  misquote  most  terribly,  but  would  rub  his 
hands  and  exclaim,  "By  Jupiter,  that's  fine!  that's  noble  1 
Damme,  sir,  if  I  can  conceive  how  you  hit  upon  such  ideas ! " 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  always  relish  his  misquotations, 
which  sometimes  made  absolute  nonsense  of  the  passages ;  but 
what  author  stands  upon  trifles  when  he  is  praised?  Never  had 
I  spent  a  more  delightful  evening.  I  did  not  perceive  how  the 
time  flew.  I  could  not  bear  to  separate,  but  continued  walking 
on,  arm  in  arm  with  him  past  my  lodgings,  through  Camden 
town,  and  across  Crackscull  Common,  talking  the  whole  way 
about  my  poem. 

When  we  were  half-way  across  the  common  he  interrupted 
me  in  the  midst  of  a  quotation  by  telling  me  that  this  had  been 
a  famous  place  for  footpads,  and  was  still  occasionally  infested 
by  them;  and  that  a  man  had  recently  been  shot  there  in 
attempting  to  defend  himself. 

"The  more  fool  he!"  cried  I.  "A  man  is  an  idiot  to  risk 
life,  or  even  limb,  to  save  a  paltry  purse  of  money.  It's  quite 
a  different  case  from  that  of  a  duel,  where  one's  honor  is  con 
cerned.  For  my  part, "  added  I,  "  I  should  never  think  of  mak 
ing  resistance  against  one  of  those  desperadoes." 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  my  friend  in  green,  turning  suddenly 
upon  me,  and  putting  a  pistol  to  my  breast,  "  Why,  then  have 
at  you,  my  lad ! — come,  disburse !  empty !  unsack !" 

In  a  word,  I  found  th£frfc  the  muse  had  played  me  another  of 
her  tricks,  and  had  betrayed  me  into  the  hands  of  a  footpad. 
There  was  no  tune  to  parley ;  he  made  me  turn  my  pockets 
inside  out ;  and  hearing  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps,  he  made 
one  fell  swoop  upon  purse,  watch,  and  all,  gave  me  a  thwack 
over  my  unlucky  pate  that  laid  me  sprawling  on  the  ground; 
and  scampered  away  with  his  booty. 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  93 

I  saw  no  more  of  my  friend  in  green  until  a  year  or  two 
afterwards ;  when  I  caught  a  sight  of  his  poetical  countenance 
among  a  crew  of  scapegraces,  heavily  ironed,  who  were  on  the 
way  for  transportation.  He  recognized  me  at  once,  tipped  me 
an  impudent  wink,  and  asked  me  how  I  came  on  with  the  his 
tory  of  Jack  Straw's  castle. 

The  catastrophe  at  Crackscull  Common  put  an  end  to  my 
summer's  campaign.  I  was  cured  of  my  poetical  enthusiasm 
for  rebels,  robbers,  and  highwaymen.  I  was  put  out  of  conceit 
of  my  subject,  and  what  was  worse,  I  was  lightened  of  my 
purse,  in  which  was  almost  every  farthing  I  had  in  the  world. 
So  I  abandoned  Sir  Richard  Steele's  cottage  in  despair,  and 
crept  into  less  celebrated,  though  no  less  poetical  and  airy 
lodgings  in  a  garret  in  town. 

I  see  you  are  growing  weary,  so  I  will  not  detain  you  with 
any  more  of  my  luckless  attempts  to  get  astride  of  Pegasus. 
Still  I  could  not  consent  to  give  up  the  trial  and  abandon  those 
dreams  of  renown  in  which  I  had  indulged.  How  should  I 
ever  be  able  to  look  the  literary  circle  of  my  native  village  in 
the  face,  if  I  were  so  completely  to  falsify  their  predictions. 
For  some  time  longer,  therefore,  I  continued  to  write  for  fame, 
and  of  course,  was  the  most  miserable  dog  in  existence,  besides 
being  in  continual  risk  of  starvation. 

I  have  many  a  time  strolled  sorrowfully  along,  with  a  sad 
heart  and  an  empty  stomach,  about  five  o'clock,  and  looked 
wistfully  down  the  areas  in  the  west  end  of  the  town ;  and  seen 
through  the  kitchen  windows  the  fires  gleaming,  and  the  joints 
of  meat  turning  on  the  spits  and  dripping  with  gravy ;  and  the 
cook  maids  beating  up  puddings,  or  trussing  turkeys,  and  have 
felt  for  the  moment  that  if  I  could  but  have  the  run  of  one  of 
those  kitchens,  Apollo  and  the  muses  might  have  the  hungry 
heights  of  Parnassus  for  me.  Oh,  sir!  talk  of  meditations 
among  the  tombs — they  are  nothing  so  melancholy  as  the  medi 
tations  of  a  poor  devil  without  penny  in  pouch,  along  a  line  of 
kitchen  windows  towards  dinner-time. 

At  length,  when  almost  reduced  to  famine  and  despair,  the 
idea  all  at  once  entered  my  head,  that  perhaps  I  was  not  so 
clever  a  fellow  as  the  village  and  myself  had  supposed.  It  was 
the  salvation  of  me.  The  moment  the  idea  popped  into  my 
brain,  it  brought  conviction  and  comfort  with  it.  I  awoke  as 
from  a  dream.  I  gave  up  immortal  fame  to  those  who  could 
live  on  air ;  took  to  writing  for  mere  bread,  and  have  ever  since 
led  a  very  tolerable  life  of  it.  There  is  no  man  of  letters  so 


94  TALUS  OF  A  TRAVELLED. 

much  at  his  ease,  sir,  as  he  that  has  no  character  to  gain  or 
lose.  I  had  to  train  myself  to  it  a  little,  however,  and  to  clip 
my  wings  short  at  first,  or  they  would  have  carried  me  up  into 
poetry  in  spite  of  myself.  So  I  determined  to  begin  by  the 
opposite  extreme,  and  abandoning  the  higher  regions  of  the 
craft,  I  came  plump  down  to  the  lowest,  and  turned  creeper. 

' '  Creeper, "  interrupted  I,  ' '  and  pray  what  is  that  ?"  Oh,  sir ! 
I  see  you  are  ignorant  of  the  language  of  the  craft ;  a  creeper 
is  one  who  furnishes  the  newspapers  with  paragraphs  at  so 
much  a  line,  one  that  goes  about  in  quest  of  misfortunes; 
attends  the  Bow-street  office ;  the  courts  of  justice  and  every 
other  den  of  mischief  and  iniquity.  We  are  paid  at  the  rate  of 
a  penny  a  line,  and  as  we  can  sell  the  same  paragraph  to  almost 
every  paper,  we  sometimes  pick  up  a  very  decent  day's  work. 
Now  and  then  the  muse  is  unkind,  or  the  day  uncommonly 
quiet,  and  then  we  rather  starve;  and  sometimes  the  uncon 
scionable  editors  will  clip  our  paragraphs  when  they  are  a  little 
too  rhetorical,  and  snip  off  twopence  or  threepence  at  a  go.  I 
have  many  a  time  had  my  pot  of  porter  snipped  off  of  my  din 
ner  in  this  way ;  and  have  had  to  dine  with  dry  lips.  However, 
I  cannot  complain.  I  rose  gradually  in  the  lower  ranks  of  the 
craft,  and  am  now,  I  think,  in  the  most  comfortable  region  of 
literature. 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  "what  may  you  be  at  present?" 
"At  present,"  said  he,  " I  am  a  regular  job  writer,  and  turn 
my  hand  to  anything.  I  work  up  the  writings  of  others  at  so 
much  a  sheet ;  turn  off  translations ;  write  second-rate  articles 
to  fill  up  reviews  and  magazines ;  compile  travels  and  voyages, 
and  furnish  theatrical  criticisms  for  the  newspapers.  Ah1  this 
authorship,  you  perceive,  is  anonymous ;  it  gives  no  reputation, 
except  among  the  trade,  where  I  am  considered  an  author  of 
all  work,  and  am  always  sure  of  employ.  That's  the  only 
reputation  I  want.  I  sleep  soundly,  without  dread  of  duns  or 
critics,  and  leave  immortal  fame  to  those  that  choose  to  fret 
and  fight  about  it.  Take  my  word  for  it,  the  only  happy  author 
in  this  world  is  he  who  is  below  the  care  of  reputation." 


The  preceding  anecdotes  of  Buckthorne's  early  schoolmate, 
and  a  variety  of  peculiarities  which  I  had  remarked  in  him 
self,  gave  me  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  own 
history.  There  was  a  dash  of  careless  good  humor  about  him 
that  pleased  me  exceedingly,  and  at  times  a  whimsical  tinge 
of  melancholy  ran  through  his  humor  that  gave  it  an  addi- 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.       95 

tional  relish.  He  had  evidently  been  a  little  chilled  and  buf 
feted  by  fortune,  without  being  soured  thereby,  as  some  fruits 
become  mellower  and  sweeter,  from  having  been  bruised  or 
frost-bitten.  He  smiled  when  I  expressed  my  desire.  "  I  have 
no  great  story,"  said  he,  "to  relate.  A  mere  tissue  of  errors 
and  follies.  But,  such  as  it  is,  you  shall  have  one  epoch  of 
it,  by  which  you  may  judge  of  the  rest."  And  so,  without 
any  farther  prelude,  he  gave  me  the  following  anecdotes  of 
his  early  adventures. 


BUCKTHORNE,  OR  THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT 
EXPECTATIONS. 

I  WAS  born  to  very  little  property,  but  to  great  expectations ; 
which  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  unlucky  fortunes  that  a  man 
can  be  born  to.  My  father  was  a  country  gentleman,  the  last 
of  a  very  ancient  and  honorable,  but  decayed  family,  and 
resided  in  an  old  hunting  lodge  in  Warwickshire.  He  was  a 
keen  sportsman  and  lived  to  the  extent  of  his  moderate 
income,  so  that  I  had  little  to  expect  from  that  quarter;  but 
then  I  had  a  rich  uncle  by  the  mother's  side,  a  penurious, 
accumulating  curmudgeon,  who  it  was  confidently  expected 
would  make  me  his  heir;  because  he  was  an  old  bachelor; 
because  I  was  named  after  him,  and  because  he  hated  all  the 
world  except  myself. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  inveterate  hater,  a  miser  even  hi  misan 
thropy,  and  hoarded  up  a  grudge  as  he  did  a  guinea.  Thus, 
though  my  mother  was  an  only  sister,  he  had  never  forgiven 
rlier  marriage  with  my  father,  against  whom  he  had  a  cold, 
still,  immovable  pique,  which  had  lain  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  like  a  stone  in  a  well,  ever  since  they  had  been  school 
boys  together.  My  mother,  however,  considered  me  as  the 
intermediate  being  that  was  to  bring  every  thing  again  into 
harmony,  for  she  looked  upon  me  as  a  prodigy — God  bless  her. 
My  heart  overflows  whenever  I  recall  her  tenderness :  she  was 
the  most  excellent,  the  most  indulgent  of  mothers.  I  was  her 
only  child ;  it  was  a  pity  she  had  no  more,  for  she  had  fondness 
of  heart  enough  to  have  spoiled  a  dozen ! 

I  was  sent,  at  an  early  age,  to  a  public  school,  sorely  against 
my  mether's  wishes,  but  my  father  insisted  that  it  was  the 


96  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

only  way  to  make  boys  hardy.  The  school  was  kept  by  a  con 
scientious  prig  of  the  ancient  system,  who  did  his  duty  by  the 
boys  intrusted  to  his  care;  that  is  to  say,  we  were  flogged 
soundly  when  we  did  not  get  our  lessons.  We  were  put  into 
classes  and  thus  flogged  on  in  droves  along  the  highways  of 
knowledge,  in  the  same  manner  as  cattle  are  driven  to  market, 
where  those  that  are  heavy  in  gait  or  short  in  leg  have  to 
suffer  for  the  superior  alertness  or  longer  limbs  of  their  com 
panions. 

For  my  part,  I  confess  it  with  shame,  I  was  an  incorrigible 
laggard.  I  have  always  had  the  poetical  feeling,  that  is  to  say, 
I  have  always  been  an  idle  fellow  and  prone  to  play  the  vaga 
bond.  I  used  to  get  away  from  my  books  and  school  whenever 
I  could,  and  ramble  about  the  fields.  I  was  surrounded  by 
seductions  for  such  a  temperament.  The  school-house  was  an 
old-fashioned,  white-washed  mansion  of  wood  and  plaister, 
standing  on  the  skirts  of  a  beautiful  village.  Close  by  it  was 
the  venerable  church  with  a  tall  Gothic  spire.  Before  it  spread 
a  lovely  green  valley,  with  a  little  stream  glistening  along 
through  willow  groves ;  while  a  line  of  blue  hills  that  bounded 
the  landscape  gave  rise  to  many  a  summer  day  dream  as  to  the 
fairy  land  that  lay  beyond. 

In  spite  of  all  the  scourgings  I  suffered  at  that  school  to 
make  me  love  my  book,  I  cannot  but  look  back  upon  the  place 
with  fondness.  Indeed,  I  considered  this  frequent  flagellation 
as  the  common  lot  of  humanity,  and  the  regular  mode  in 
which  scholars  were  made.  My  kind  mother  used  to  lament 
over  my  details  of  the  sore  trials  I  underwent  in  the  cause  of 
learning;  but  my  father  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  expostula 
tions.  He  had  been  flogged  through  school  himself ,  and  swore 
there  was  no  other  way  of  making  a  man  of  parts ;  though,  let 
me  speak  it  with  all  due  reverence,  my  father  was  but  an  indif 
ferent  illustration  of  his  own  theory,  for  he  was  considered  a 
grievous  blockhead. 

My  poetical  temperament  evinced  itself  at  a  very  early 
period.  The  village  church  was  attended  every  Sunday  by  a 
neighboring  squire— the  lord  of  the  manor,  whose  park 
stretched  quite  to  the  village,  and  whose  spacious  country  seat 
seemed  to  take  the  church  under  its  protection.  Indeed,  you 
would  have  thought  the  church  had  been  consecrated  to  him 
instead  of  to  the  Deity.  The  parish  clerk  bowed  low  before 
him,  and  the  vergers  humbled  themselves  into  the  dust  in  his 
presence.  He  always  entered  a  little  late  and  with  some  stir, 


THE  TO  UNO  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.       97 

striking  his  cane  emphatically  on  the  ground;  swaying  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  and  looking  loftily  to  the  right  and  left,  as  he 
walked  slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  the  parson,  who  always  ate  his 
Sunday  dinner  with  him,  never  commenced  service  until  he 
appeared.  He  sat  with  his  family  in  a  large  pew  gorgeously 
lined,  humbling  himself  devoutly  on  velvet  cushions,  and  read 
ing  lessons  of  meekness  and  lowliness  of  spirit  out  of  splendid 
gold  and  morocco  prayer-books.  Whenever  the  parson  spoke 
of  the  difficulty  of  the  rich  man's  entering  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  the  eyes  of  the  congregation  would  turn  towards  the 
"grand  pew,"  and  I  thought  the  squire  seemed  pleased  with  the 
application. 

The  pomp  of  this  pew  and  the  aristocratical  air  of  the  family 
struck  my  imagination  wonderfully,  and  I  fell  desperately  in 
love  with  a  little  daughter  of  the  squire's  about  twelve  years  of 
age.  This  freak  of  fancy  made  me  more  truant  from  my 
studies  than  ever.  I  used  to  stroll  about  the  squire's  park, 
and  would  lurk  near  the  house  to  catch  glimpses  of  this  little 
damsel  at  the  windows,  or  playing  about  the  lawns,  or  walking 
out  with  her  governess. 

I  had  not  enterprise  or  impudence  enough  to  venture  from 
my  concealment ;  indeed,  I  felt  like  an  arrant  poacher,  until 
I  read  one  or  two  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  when  I  pic 
tured  myself  as  some  sylvan  deity,  and  she  a  coy  wood  nymph 
of  whom  I  was  in  pursuit.  There  is  something  extremely 
delicious  in  these  early  awakenings  of  the  tender  passion. 
I  can  feel,  even  at  this  moment,  the  thrilling  of  my  boyish 
bosom,  whenever  by  chance  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white 
frock  fluttering  among  the  shrubbery.  I  now  began  to  read 
poetry.  I  carried  about  in  my  bosom  a  volume  of  Waller, 
which  I  had  purloined  from  my  mother's  library ;  and  I  applied 
'to  my  little  fair  one  all  the  compliments  lavished  upon  Sach- 
arissa. 

At  length  I  danced  with  her  at  a  school  ball.  I  was  so  awk 
ward  a  booby,  that  I  dared  scarcely  speak  to  her ;  I  was  filled 
with  awe  and  embarrassment  in  her  presence ;  but  I  was  so 
inspired  that  my  poetical  temperament  for  the  first  time 
broke  out  in  verse;  and  I  fabricated  some  glowing  lines,  in 
which  I  be-rhymed  the  little  lady  under  the  favorite  name  of 
Sacharissa.  I  slipped  the  verses,  trembling  and  blushing,  into 
her  hand  the  next  Sunday  as  she  came  out  of  church.  The  little 
prude  handed  them  to  her  mamma ;  the  mamma  handed  them 
to  the  squire;  the  squire,  who  had  no  soul  for  poetry,  sent 


98  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

them  in  dudgeon  to  the  school-master ;  and  the  school-master, 
with  a  barbarity  worthy  of  the  dark  ages,  gave  me  a  sound 
and  peculiarly  humiliating  flogging  for  thus  trespassing  upon 
Parnassus. 

This  was  a  sad  outset  for  a  votary  of  the  muse.  It  ought  to 
have  cured  me  of  my  passion  for  poetry;  but  it  only  con 
firmed  it,  for  I  felt  the  spirit  of  a  martyr  rising  within  me. 
What  was  as  well,  perhaps,  it  cured  me  of  my  passion  for  the 
young  lady ;  for  I  felt  so  indignant  at  the  ignominious  horsing 
I  had  incurred  in  celebrating  her  charms,  that  I  could  not  hold 
up  my  head  in  church. 

Fortunately  for  my  wounded  sensibility,  the  midsummer 
holydays  came  on,  and  I  returned  home.  My  mother,  as  usual, 
inquired  into  all  my  school  concerns,  my  little  pleasures,  and 
cares,  and  sorrows ;  for  boyhood  has  its  share  of  the  one  as 
well  as  of  the  others.  I  told  her  all,  and  she  was  indignant  at 
the  treatment  I  had  experienced.  She  fired  up  at  the  arrogance 
of  the  squire,  and  the  prudery  of  the  daughter ;  and  as  to  the 
school-master,  she  wondered  where  was  the  use  of  having 
school-masters,  and  why  boys  could  not  remain  at  home  and  be 
educated  by  tutors,  under  the  eye  of  their  mothers.  She  asked 
to  see  the  verses  I  had  written,  and  she  was  delighted  with 
them ;  for  to  confess  the  truth,  she  had  a  pretty  taste  in  poetry. 
She  even  showed  to  them  to  the  parson's  wife,  who  protested 
they  were  charming,  and  the  parson's  three  daughters  insisted 
on  each  having  a  copy  of  them. 

All  this  was  exceedingly  balsamic,  and  I  was  still  more  con 
soled  and  encouraged,  when  the  young  ladies,  who  were  the 
blue-stockings  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  read  Dr.  Johnson's 
lives  quite  through,  assured  my  mother  that  great  geniuses 
never  studied,  but  were  always  idle ;  upon  which  I  began  to 
surmise  that  I  was  myself  something  out  of  the  common  run. 
My  father,  however,  was  of  a  very  different  opinion,  for  when 
my  mother,  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  showed  him  my  copy  of 
verses,  he  threw  them  out  of  the  window,  asking  her  ' '  if  she 
meant  to  make  a  ballad  monger  of  the  boy. "  But  he  was  a  care 
less,  common-thinking  man,  and  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  loved 
him  much ;  my  mother  absorbed  all  my  filial  affection. 

I  used  occasionally,  during  holydays,  to  be  sent  on  short 
visits  to  the  uncle,  who  was  to  make  me  his  heir ;  they  thought 
it  would  keep  me  in  his  mind,  and  render  him  fond  of  me.  He 
was  a  withered,  anxious-looking  old  fellow,  and  lived  in  a  deso 
late  old  country  seat,  which  he  suffered  to  go  to  ruin  from 


THE  YOUNG  J&UT  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.      99 

absolute  niggardliness.  He  kept  but  one  man-servant,  who 
had  lived,  or  rather  starved,  with  him  for  years.  No  woman 
was  allowed  to  sleep  in  the  house.  A  daughter  of  the  old  ser 
vant  lived  by  the  gate,  in  what  had  been  a  porter's  lodge,  and 
was  permitted  to  come  into  the  house  about  an  hour  each  day, 
to  make  the  beds,  and  cook  a  morsel  of  provisions. 

The  park  that  surrounded  the  house  was  all  run  wild ;  the 
trees  grown  out  of  shape;  the  fish-ponds  stagnant;  the  urns 
and  statues  fallen  from  their  pedestals  and  buried  among  the 
rank  grass.  The  hares  and  pheasants  were  so  little  molested, 
except  by  poachers,  that  they  bred  in  great  abundance,  and 
sported  about  the  rough  lawns  and  weedy  avenues.  To  guard 
the  premises  and  frighten  off  robbers,  of  whom  he  was  some 
what  apprehensive,  and  visitors,  whom  he  held  in  almost  equal 
awe,  my  uncle  kept  two  or  three  blood-hounds,  who  were  al 
ways  prowling  round  the  house,  and  were  the  dread  of  the 
neighboring  peasantry.  They  were  gaunt  and  half-starved, 
seemed  ready  to  devour  one  from  mere  hunger,  and  were  an 
effectual  check  on  any  stranger's  approach  to  this  wizard 
castle. 

Such  was  my  uncle's  house,  which  I  used  to  visit  now  and 
then  during  'the  holydays.  I  was,  as  I  have  before  said,  the 
old  man's  favorite ;  that  is  to  say,  he  did  not  hate  me  so  much 
as  he  did  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  had  been  apprised  of  his 
character,  and  cautioned  to  cultivate  his  good- will ;  but  I  was 
too  young  and  careless  to  be  a  courtier ;  and  indeed  have  never 
been  sufficiently  studious  of  my  interests  to  let  them  govern  my 
feelings.  However,  we  seemed  to  jog  on  very  well  together; 
and  as  my  visits  cost  him  almost  nothing,  they  did  not  seem  to 
be  very  unwelcome.  I  brought  with  me  my  gun  and  fishing- 
rod,  and  half  supplied  the  table  from  the  park  and  the  fish 
ponds. 

Our  meals  were  solitary  and  unsocial.  My  uncle  rarely 
r;oke;  he  pointed  for  whatever  he  wanted,  and  the  servant 
perfectly  understood  him.  Indeed,  his  man  John,  or  Iron 
John,  as  he  was  called  in  the  neighborhood,  was  a  counterpart 
of  his  master.  He  was  a  tall,  bony  old  fellow,  with  a  dry  wig 
that  seemed  made  of  cow's  tail,  and  a  face  as  tough  as  though 
it  had  been  made  of  bull's  hide.  He  was  generally  clad  in  a 
long,  patched  livery  coat,  taken  out  of  the  wardrobe  of  the 
house ;  and  which  bagged  loosely  about  him,  having  evidently 
belonged  to  some  corpulent  predecessor,  in  the  more  plenteous 
days  of  the  mansion.  From  long  habits  of  taciturnity,  tho 


100  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

hinges  of  his  jaws  seemed  to  have  grown  absolutely  rusty,  and 
it  cost  him  as  much  effort  to  set  them  ajar,  and  to  let  out  a 
tolerable  sentence,  a.3  it  would  have  done  to  set  open  the  iron 
gates  of  a  park,  and  let  out  the  family  carriage  that  was  drop 
ping  to  pieces  in  the  coach-house. 

I  cannot  say,  however,  but  that  I  was  for  some  time  amused 
with  my  uncle's  peculiarities.  Even  the  very  desolateness  of 
the  establishment  had  something  in  it  that  hit  my  fancy. 
When  the  weather  was  fine  I  used  to  amuse  myself,  in  a  soli 
tary  way,  by  rambling  about  the  park,  and  coursing  like  a 
colt  across  its  lawns.  The  hares  and  pheasants  seemed  to  stare 
with  surprise,  to  see  a  human  being  walking  these  forbidden 
grounds  by  day-light.  Sometimes  I  amused  myself  by  jerking 
stones,  or  shooting  at  birds  with  a  bow  and  arrows;  for  to 
'  have  used  a  gun  would  have  been  treason.  Now  and  then  my 
path  was  crossed  by  a  little  red-headed,  ragged-tailed  urchin, 
the  son  of  the  woman  at  the  lodge,  who  ran  wild  about  the 
premises.  I  tried  to  draw  him  into  familiarity,  and  to  make  a 
companion  of  him ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  the  strange, 
unsocial  character  of  every  thing  around  him ;  and  always  kept 
aloof ;  so  I  considered  him  as  another  Orson,  and  amused  my 
self  with  shooting  at  him  with  my  bow  and  arrows,  and  he 
would  hold  up  his  breeches  with  one  hand,  ond  scamper  away 
like  a  deer. 

There  was  something  in  all  this  loneliness  and  wildness 
strangely  pleasing  to  me.  The  great  stables,  empty  and 
weather-broken,  with  the  names  of  favorite  horses  over  the 
vacant  stalls ;  the  windows  bricked  and  boarded  up ;  the  broken 
roofs,  garrisoned  by  rooks  and  jackdaws ;  all  had  a  singularly 
forlorn  appearance:  one  would  have  concluded  the  house  to 
be  totally  uninhabited,  were  it  not  for  a  little  thread  of  blue 
smoke,  which  now  and  then  curled  up  like  a  corkscrew,  from 
the  centre  of  one  of  the  wide  chimneys,  when  my  uncle's  star 
veling  meal  was  cooking. 

My  uncle's  room  was  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  building, 
strongly  secured  and  generally  locked.  I  was  never  admitted 
into  this  strong-hold,  where  the  old  man  would  remain  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  drawn  up  like  a  veteran  spider  in  the 
citadel  of  his  web.  The  rest  of  the  mansion,  however,  was 
open  to  me,  and  I  sauntered  about  it  unconstrained.  The 
damp  and  rain  which  beat  hi  through  the  broken  windows, 
crumbled  the  paper  from  the  walls ;  mouldered  the  pictures, 
and  gradually  destroyed  the  furniture.  I  loved  to  rove  about 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    101 

the  wide,  waste  chambers  in  had  weather,  and  listen  to  the 
howling  of  the  wind,  and  the  banging  about  of  the  doors  and 
window-shutters.  I  pleased  myself  'with-  the  idea  'how  com 
pletely,  when  I  came  to  the  estate,  I.wouul  renovate  dll  things, 
and  make  the  old  building  ring  with  merriment,  till  it  was  as 
tonished  at  its  own  jocundity.  '...•'•.  -  '' :  •  .  s  ;/•:*« 

The  chamber  which  I  occupied  on  these  visits  was  the  same 
that  had  been  my  mother's,  when  a  girl.  There  was  still  the 
toilet-table  of  her  own  adorning;  the  landscapes  of  her  own 
drawing.  She  had  never  seen  it  since  her  marriage,  but  would 
often  ask  me  if  every  thing  was  still  the  same.  All  was  just 
the  same;  for  I  loved  that  chamber  on  her  account,  and  had 
taken  pains  to  put  every  thing  in  order,  and  to  mend  all  the 
flaws  in  the  windows  with  my  own  hands.  I  anticipated  the 
time  when  I  should  once  more  welcome  her  to  the  house  of  her 
fathers,  and  restore  her  to  this  little  nestling-place  of  her  child 
hood. 

At  length  my  evil  genius,  or,  what  perhaps  is  the  same  thing, 
the  muse,  inspired  me  with  the  notion  of  rhyming  again.  My 
uncle,  who  never  went  to  church,  used  on  Sundays  to  read 
chapters  out  of  the  Bible ;  and  Iron  John,  the  woman  from  the 
lodge,  and  myself,  were  his  congregation.  It  seemed  to  be  all 
one  to  him  what  he  read,  so  long  as  it  was  something  from  the 
Bible :  sometimes,  therefore,  it  would  be  the  Song  of  Solomon ; 
and  this  withered  anatomy  would  read  about  being  "stayed 
with  flagons  and  comforted  with  apples,  for  he  was  sick 
of  love."  Sometimes  he  would  hobble,  with  spectacle  on  nose, 
through  whole  chapters  of  hard  Hebrew  names  in  Deuteron 
omy  ;  at  which  the  poor  woman  would  sigh  and  groan  as  if 
wonderfully  moved.  His  favorite  book,  however,  was  "The 
Pilgrim's  Progress;"  and  when  he  came  to  that  part  which 
treats  of  Doubting  Castle  and  Giant  Despair,  I  thought  invaria 
bly  of  him  and  his  desolate  old  country  seat.  So  much  did  the 
idea  amuse  me,  that  I  took  to  scribbling  about  it  under  the 
trees  in  the  park ;  and  in  a  few  days  had  made  some  progress 
in  a  poem,  in  which  I  had  given  a  description  of  the  place, 
under  the  name  of  Doubting  Castle,  and  personified  my  uncle 
as  Giant  Despair. 

I  lost  my  poem  somewhere  about  the  house,  and  I  soon  sus 
pected  that  my  uncle  had  found  it ;  as  he  harshly  intimated  to 
me  that  I  could  return  home,  and  that  I  need  not  come  and  see 
him  again  until  he  should  send  for  me. 

Just  about  this  time  my  mother  died. — I  cannot  dwell  upon 


102  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

this  circumstance;  my  heart,  careless  and  wayworn  as  it  is, 
gushes  with  the  recollection.  Her  death  was  an  event  that 
perhaps^  gave  a  turn' to.  all  niy  after  fortunes.  With  her  died 
all  that*  made  honie  attractive,  for  my  father  was  harsh,  as  I 
havs  Before  ;saaii,  *dd  had  never  treated  me  with  kindness. 
Noi'tEat  he'Skerfed  aisy  imutfual  severity  towards  me,  but  it 
was  his  way.  I  do  not  complain  of  him.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
been  of  a  complaining  disposition.  I  seem  born  to  be  buffet 
ed  by  friends  and  fortune,  and  nature  has  made  me  a  careless 
endurer  of  buffetings. 

I  now,  however,  began  to  grow  very  impatient  of  remaining 
at  school,  to  be  flogged  for  things  that  I  did  not  like.  I  longed 
for  variety,  especially  now  that  I  had  not  my  uncle's  to  resort  to, 
by  way  of  diversifying  the  dullness  of  school  with  the  dreari 
ness  of  his  country  seat.  I  was  now  turned  of  sixteen ;  tall  for 
my  age,  and  full  of  idle  fancies.  I  had  a  roving,  inextinguish 
able  desire  to  see  different  kinds  of  lif e,  and  different  orders  of 
society ;  and  this  vagrant  humor  had  been  fostered  in  me  by 
Tom  Dribble,  the  prime  wag  and  great  genius  of  the  school, 
who  had  all  the  rambling  propensities  of  a  poet. 

I  used  to  set  at  my  desk  in  the  school,  on  a  fine  summer's 
day,  and  instead  of  studying  the  book  which  lay  open  before 
me,  my  eye  was  gazing  through  the  window  on  the  green  fields 
and  blue  hills.  How  I  envied  the  happy  groups  seated  on  the 
tops  of  stage-coaches,  chatting,  and  joking,  and  laughing,  as 
they  were  whirled  by  the  school-house,  on  their  way  to  the 
metropolis.  Even  the  wagoners  trudging  along  beside  their  pon 
derous  teams,  and  traversing  the  kingdom,  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  were  objects  of  envy  to  me.  I  fancied  to  myself  what 
adventures  they  must  experience,  and  what  odd  scenes  of  life 
they  must  witness.  All  this  was  doubtless  the  poetical  tempera 
ment  working  within  me,  and  tempting  me  forth  into  a  world 
of  its  own  creation,  which  I  mistook  for  the  world  of  real  life. 

While  my  mother  lived,  this  strange  propensity  to  roam  was 
counteracted  by  the  stronger  attractions  of  home,  and  by  the 
powerful  ties  of  affection,  which  drew  me  to  her  side :  but  now 
that  she  was  gone,  the  attractions  had  ceased ;  the  ties  were 
severed.  I  had  no  longer  an  anchorage  ground  for  my  heart ; 
but  was  at  the  mercy  of  every  vagrant  impulse.  Nothing  but 
the  narrow  allowance  on  which  my  father  kept  me,  and  the 
consequent  penury  of  my  purse,  prevented  me  from  mounting 
the  top  of  a  stage-coach  and  launching  myself  adrift  on  the 
great  ocean  of  Me. 


THE  YOUNG   MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     103 

Just  about  this  time  the  village  was  agitated  for  a  day  or 
two,  by  the  passing  through  of  several  caravans,  containing 
wild  beasts,  and  other  spectacles  for  a  great  fair  annually  held 
at  a  neighboring  town. 

I  had  never  seen  a  fair  of  any  consequence,  and  my  curiosity 
was  powerfully  awakened  by  this  bustle  of  preparation.  I 
gazed  with  respect  and  wonder  at  the  vagrant  personages  who 
accompanied  these  caravans.  I  loitered  about  the  village  inn, 
listening  with  curiosity  and  delight  to  the  slang  talk  and  cant 
jokes  of  the  showmen  and  their  followers ;  and  I  felt  an  eager 
desire  to  witness  this  fair,  which  my  fancy  decked  out  as 
something  wonderfully  fine. 

A  holyday  afternoon  presented,  when  I  could  be  absent  from 
the  school  from  noon  until  evening.  A  wagon  was  going  from 
the  village  to  the  fair.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  nor 
the  eloquence  of  Tom  Dribble,  who  was  a  truant  to  the  very 
heart's  core.  We  hired  seats,  and  set  off  full  of  boyish  expecta 
tion.  I  promised  myself  that  I  would  but  take  a  peep  at  the 
land  of  promise,  and  hasten  back  again  before  my  absence 
should  be  noticed. 

Heavens !  how  happy  I  was  on  arriving  at  the  fair !  How  I 
was  enchanted  with  the  world  of  fun  and  pageantry  around 
me !  The  humors  of  Punch ;  the  feats  of  the  equestrians ;  the 
magical  tricks  of  the  conjurors !  But  what  principally  caught 
my  attention  was — an  itinerant  theatre ;  where  a  tragedy,  pan- 
tomine,  and  farce  were  all  acted  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour, 
and  more  of  the  dramatis  personse  murdered,  than  at  either 
Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden  in  a  whole  evening.  I  have 
since  seen  many  a  play  performed  by  the  best  actors  in  the 
world,  but  never  have  I  derived  half  the  delight  from  any  that 
I  did  from  this  first  representation. 

There  was  a  ferocious  tyrant  in  a  skull  cap  like  an  inverted 
porringer,  and  a  dress  of  red  baize,  magnificently  embroidered 
with  gilt  leather ;  with  his  face  so  be- whiskered  and  his  eye 
brows  so  knit  and  expanded  with  burn  cork,  that  he  made  my 
heart  quake  within  me  as  he  stamped  about  the  little  stage.  I 
was  enraptured  too  with  the  surpasssing  beauty  of  a  distressed 
damsel,  in  faded  pink  silk,  and  dirty  white  muslin,  whom  he 
held  in  cruel  captivity  by  way  of  gaining  her  affections ;  and  who 
wept  and  wrung  her  hands  and  flourished  a  ragged  pocket 
handkerchief  from  the  top  of  an  impregnable  tower,  of  the  size 
of  a  band-box. 

Even  after  I  had  come  out  from  the  play,  I  could  not  tear 


104  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

myself  from  the  vicinity  of  the  theatre;  but  lingered,  gazing 
and  wondering,  and  laughing  at  the  dramatis  personse,  as  thej> 
performed  their  antics,  or  danced  upon  a  stage  in  front  of  the 
booth,  to  decoy  a  new  set  of  spectators. 

I  was  so  bewildered  by  the  scene,  and  so  lost  in  the  crowd  of 
sensations  that  kept  swarming  upon  me  that  I  was  like  one 
entranced.  I  lost  my  companion  Tom  Dribble,  in  a  tumult 
and  scuffle  that  took  place  near  one  of  the  shows,  but  I  was  too 
much  occupied  in  mind  to  think  long  about  him.  I  strolled 
about  until  dark,  when  the  fair  was  lighted  up,  and  a  new 
scene  of  magic  opened  upon  me.  The  illumination  of  the  tents 
and  booths;  the  brilliant  effect  of  the  stages  decorated  with 
lamps,  with  dramatic  groups  flaunting  about  them  in  gaudy 
dresses,  contrasted  splendidly  with  the  surrounding  darkness ; 
while  the  uproar  of  drums,  trumpets,  fiddles,  hautboys,  and 
cymbals,  mingled  with  the  harangues  of  the  showmen,  the 
squeaking  of  Punch,  and  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  crowd, 
aU  united  to  complete  my  giddy  distraction. 

Time  flew  without  my  perceiving  it.  When  I  came  to  my 
self  and  thought  of  the  school,  I  hastened  to  return.  I  inquired 
for  the  wagon  in  which  I  had  come :  it  had  been  gone  for  hours. 
I  asked  the  time :  it  was  almost  midnight !  A  sudden  quaking 
seized  me.  How  was  I  to  get  back  to  school?  I  was  too  weary 
to  make  the  journey  on  foot,  and  I  knew  not  where  to  apply 
for  a  conveyance.  Even  if  I  should  find  one,  could  I  venture 
to  disturb  the  school-house  long  after  midnight?  to  arouse  that 
sleeping  lion,  the  usher,  in  the  very  midst  of  his  night's  rest? 
The  idea  was  too  dreadful  for  a  delinquent  school-boy.  All  the 
horrors  of  return  rushed  upon  me — my  absence  must  long 
before  this  have  been  remarked — and  absent  for  a  whole  night? 
a  deed  of  darkness  not  easily  to  be  expiated.  The  rod  of  the 
pedagogue  budded  forth  into  tenfold  terrors  before  my  affright 
ed  fancy.  I  pictured  to  myself  punishment  and  humiliation  in 
every  variety  of  form ;  and  my  heart  sickened  at  the  picture. 
Alas !  how  often  are  the  petty  ills  of  boyhood  as  painful  to  oui 
tender  natures,  as  are  the  sterner  evils  of  manhood  to  our 
robuster  minds. 

I  wandered  about  among  the  booths,  and  I  might  have 
derived  a  lesson  from  my  actual  f eelings,  how  much  the  charms 
of  this  world  depend  upon  ourselves ;  for  I  no  longer  saw  any 
thing  gay  or  delightful  in  the  revelry  around  me.  At  length  I 
lay  down,  wearied  and  perplexed,  behind  one  of  the  large  tents, 


THE  TOUXG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    103 

and  covering  myself  with  the  margin  of  the  tent  cloth  to  keep 
off  the  night  chill,  I  soon  fell  fast  asleep. 

I  had  not  slept  long,  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  noise  of 
merriment  within  an  adjoining  booth.  It  was  the  itinerant 
theatre,  rudely  constructed  of  boards  and  canvas.  I  peeped 
through  an  aperture,  and  saw  the  whole  dramatis  personse, 
tragedy,  comedy,  pantomime,  all  refreshing  themselves  after 
the  final  dismissal  of  their  auditors.  They  were  merry  and 
gamesome,  and  made  their  flimsy  theatre  ring  with  laughter.  I 
was  astonished  to  see  the  tragedy  tyrant  in  red  baize  and  fierce 
whiskers,  who  had  made  my  heart  quake  as  he  strutted  about 
the  boards,  now  transformed  into  a  fat,  good  humored  fellow ; 
the  beaming  porringer  laid  aside  from  his  brow,  and  his  jolly 
face  washed  from  all  the  terrors  of  burnt  cork.  I  was  delighted, 
too,  to  see  the  distressed  domsel  in  faded  silk  and  dirty  muslin, 
•who  had  trembled  under  his  tyranny,  and  afflicted  me  so  much 
by  her  sorrows,  now  seated  familiarly  on  his  knee,  and  quaff 
ing  from  the  same  tankard.  Harlequin  lay  asleep  on  one  of 
the  benches;  and  monks,  satyrs,  and  vestal  virgins  were 
grouped  together,  laughing  outrageously  at  a  broad  story  told 
by  an  unhappy  count,  who  had  been  barbarously  murdered  in 
the  tragedy.  This  was,  indeed,  novelty  to  me.  It  was  a  peep 
into  another  planet.  I  gazed  and  listened  with  intense  curiosity 
and  enjoyment.  They  had  a  thousand  odd  stories  and  jokes 
about  the  events  of  the  day,  and  burlesque  descriptions  and 
mimickings  of  the  spectators  who  had  been  admiring  them. 
Their  conversation  was  full  of  allusions  to  their  adventures  at 
different  places,  where  they  had  exhibited ;  the  characters  they 
had  met  with  in  different  villages;  and  the  ludicrous  difficulties 
in  which  they  had  occasionally  been  involved.  All  past  cares 
and  troubles  were  now  turned  by  these  thoughtless  beings  into 
matter  of  merriment ;  and  made  to  contribute  to  the  gayety  of 
the  moment.  They  had  been  moving  from  fair  to  fair  about 
the  kingdom,  and  were  the  next  morning  to  set  out  on  their 
way  to  London. 

My  resolution  was  taken.  I  crept  from  my  nest,  and  scram 
bled  through  a  hedge  into  a  neighboring  field,  where  I  went  to 
work  to  make  a  tatterdemalion  of  myself.  I  tore  my  clothes ; 
soiled  them  with  dirt ;  begrimed  my  face  and  hands ;  and,  crawl 
ing  near  one  of  the  booths,  purloined  an  old  hat,  and  left  my 
new  one  in  its  place.  It  was  an  honest  theft,  and  I  hope  may 
not  hereafter  rise  up  in  judgment  against  me. 


106  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

I  now  ventured  to  the  scene  of  merrymaking,  and,  present 
ing  myself  before  the  dramatic  corps,  offered  myself  as  a 
volunteer.  I  felt  terribly  agitated  and  abashed,  for  "never 
before  stood  I  in  such  a  presence."  I  had  addressed  myself  to 
the  manager  of  the  company.  He  was  a  fat  man,  dressed  in 
dirty  white ;  with  a  red  sash  fringed  with  tinsel,  swathed  round 
his  body.  Hia  face  was  smeared  with  paint,  and  a  majestic 
plume  towered  from  an  old  spangled  black  bonnet.  He  was 
the  Jupiter  tonans  of  this  Olympus,  and  was  surrounded  by  the 
inferior  gods  and  goddesses  of  his  court.  He  sat  on  the  end  of 
a  bench,  by  a  table,  with  one  arm  akimbo  and  the  other  ex 
tended  to  the  handle  of  a  tankard,  which  he  had  slowly  set 
down  from  his  lips  as  he  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot.  It 
was  a  moment  of  awful  scrutiny,  and  I  fancied  the  groups 
around  all  watching  us  in  silent  suspense,  and  waiting  for  the 
imperial  nod. 

He  questioned  me  as  to  who  I  was ;  what  were  my  qualifica 
tions;  and  what  terms  I  expected.  I  passed  myself  off  for  a 
discharged  servant  from  a  gentleman's  family ;  and  as,  happily, 
one  does  not  require  a  special  recommendation  to  get  admitted 
into  bad  company,  the  questions  on  that  head  were  easily  satis 
fied.  As  to  my  accomplishments,  I  would  spout  a  little  poetry, 
and  knew  several  scenes  of  plays,  which  I  had  learnt  at  school 

exhibitions.    I  could  dance ,  that  was  enough ;  no  further 

questions  were  asked  me  as  to  accomplishments ;  it  was  the 
very  thing  they  wanted ;  and,  as  I  asked  no  wages,  but  merely 
meat  and  drink,  and  safe  conduct  about  the  world,  a  bargain 
was  struck  in  a  moment. 

Behold  me,  therefore  transformed  of  a  sudden  from  a  gentle 
man  student  to  ^  dancing  buffoon ;  for  such,  in  fact,  was  the 
character  in  which  I  made  my  debut.  I  was  one  of  those  who 
formed  the  groups  in  the  dramas,  and  were  principally  em 
ployed  on  the  stage  in  front  of  the  booth,  to  attract  company. 
I  was  equipped  as  a  satyr,  in  a  dress  of  drab  frLze  that  fitted  to 
my  shape ;  with  a  great  laughing  mask,  ornamented  with  huge 
ears  and  short  horns.  I  was  pleased  with  the  disguise,  because 
it  kept  me  form  the  danger  of  being  discovered,  whilst  we  were 
in  that  part  of  the  country ;  and,  as  I  had  merely  to  dance  and 
make  antics,  the  character  was  favorable  to  a  debutant,  being 
almost  on  a  par  with  Simon  Snug's  part  of  the  Lion,  which 
required  nothing  but  roaring. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  I  was  at  this  sudden  change  in 
my  situation.  I  felt  no  degradation,  for  I  had  seen  too  little  of 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  ORE  AT  EXPECTATIONS.    107 

society  to  be  thoughtful  about  the  differences  of  rank ;  and  a 
ooy  of  sixteen  is  seldom  aristocratical.  I  had  given  up  no 
friend ;  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  in  the  world  that  cared 
for  me,  now  my  poor  mother  was  dead.  I  had  given  up  no 
pleasure ;  for  my  pleasure  was  to  ramble  about  and  indulge  the 
flow  of  a  poetical  imagination ;  and  I  now  enjoyed  it  in  perfec 
tion.  There  is  no  life  so  truly  poetical  as  that  of  a  dancing 
buffoon. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  this  argued  grovelling  inclinations.  I 
do  not  think  so ;  not  that  I  mean  to  vindicate  myself  in  any 
great  degree ;  I  know  too  well  what  a  whimsical  compound  I 
am.  But  in  this  instance  I  was  seduced  by  no  love  of  low  com 
pany,  nor  disposition  to  indulge  in  low  vices.  I  have  always 
despised  the  brutally  vulgar ;  and  I  have  always  had  a  disgust 
at  vice,  whether  in  high  or  low  life.  I  was  governed  merely 
by  a  sudden  and  thoughtless  impule.  I  had  no  idea  of  resort 
ing  to  this  profession  as  a  mode  of  Me ;  or  of  attaching  myself 
to  these  people,  as  my  future  class  of  society.  I  thought  merely 
of  a  temporary  gratification  of  my  curiosity,  and  an  indulgence 
of  my  humors.  I  had  already  a  strong  relish  for  the  peculiari 
ties  of  character  and  the  varieties  of  situation,  and  I  have 
always  been  fond  of  the  comedy  of  Me,  and  desirous  of  seeing 
it  through  all  its  shifting  scenes. 

In  mingling,  therefore,  among  mountebanks  and  buffoons  I 
was  protected  by  the  very  vivacity  of  imagination  which  had 
led  me  among  them.  I  moved  about  enveloped,  as  it  were,  in 
a  protecting  delusion,  which  my  fancy  spread  around  me.  I 
assimilated  to  these  people  only  as  they  struck  me  poetically ; 
their  whimsical  ways  and  a  certain  picturesqueness  in  their 
mode  of  Me  entertained  me ;  but  I  was  neither  amused  nor  cor 
rupted  by  their  vices.  In  short,  I  mingled  among  them,  as 
Prince  Hal  did  among  his  graceless  associates,  merely  to  gratify 
my  humor. 

I  did  not  investigate  my  motives  in  this  manner,  at  the  time, 
for  I  was  too  careless  and  thoughtless  to  reason  about  the  mat 
ter  ;  but  I  do  so  now,  when  I  look  back  with  trembling  to  think 
of  the  ordeal  to  which  I  unthinkingly  exposed  myself,  and  the 
manner  in  which  I  passed  through  it.  Nothing,  I  am  con 
vinced,  but  the  poetical  temperament,  that  hurried  me  into  the 
scrape,  brought  me  out  of  it  without  my  becoming  an  arrant 
vagabond. 

Full  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  giddy  with  the  wild- 
ness  of  animal  spirits,  so  rapturous  in  a  boy,  I  capered,  I  danced, 


108  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

I  played  a  thousand  fantastic  tricks  about  the  stage,  in  the 
villages  in  which  we  exhibited;  and  I  was  universally  pro 
nounced  the  most  agreeable  monster  that  had  ever  been  seen 
in  those  parts.  My  disappearance  from  school  had  awakened 
my  father's  anxiety ;  for  I  one  day  heard  a  description  of  my 
self  cried  before  the  very  booth  in  which  I  was  exhibiting ;  with 
the  offer  of  a  reward  for  any  intelligence  of  me.  I  had  no  great 
scruple  about  letting  my  father  suffer  a  little  uneasiness  on  my 
account ;  it  would  punish  him  for  past  indifference,  and  would 
make  him  value  me  the  more  when  he  found  me  again.  I  have 
wondered  that  some  of  my  comrades  did  not  recognize  in  me 
the  stray  sheep  that  was  cried;  but  they  were  all,  no  doubt, 
occupied  by  their  own  concerns.  They  were  all  laboring  seri 
ously  in  their  antic  vocations,  for  folly  was  a  mere  trade  with 
the  most  of  them,  and  they  often  grinned  and  capered  with 
heavy  hearts.  With  me,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  all  real.  I 
acted  con  amore,  and  rattled  and  laughed  from  the  irrepressi 
ble  gayety  of  my  spirits.  It  is  true  that,  now  and  then,  I  started 
and  looked  grave  on  receiving  a  sudden  thwack  from  the 
wooden  sword  of  Harlequin,  in  the  course  of  my  gambols ;  as 
it  brought  to  mind  the  birch  of  my  school-master.  But  I  soon 
got  accustomed  to  it ;  and  bore  all  the  cuffing,  and  kicking,  and 
tumbling  about,  that  form  the  practical  wit  of  your  itinerant 
pantomime,  with  a  good  humor  that  made  me  a  prodigious 
favorite. 

The  country  campaign  of  the  troupe  was  soon  at  an  end,  and 
we  set  off  for  the  metropolis,  to  perform  at  the  fairs  which  are 
held  hi  its  vicinity.  The  greater  part  of  our  theatrical  property 
was  sent  on  direct,  to  be  in  a  state  of  preparation  for  the  open 
ing  of  the  fairs ;  while  a  detachment  of  the  company  travelled 
slowly  on,  foraging  among  the  villages.  I  was  amused  with 
the  desultory,  hap-hazard  kind  of  lif e  we  led ;  here  to-day,  and 
gone  to-morrow.  Sometimes  revelling  in  ale-houses;  some 
times  feasting  under  hedges  in  the  green  fields.  When  audi 
ences  were  crowded  and  business  profitable,  we  fared  well,  and 
when  otherwise,  we  fared  scantily,  and  consoled  ourselves  with 
anticipations  of  the  next  day's  success. 

At  length  the  increasing  frequency  of  coaches  hurrying  past 
us,  covered  with  passengers;  the  increasing  number  of  car 
riages,  carts,  wagons,  gigs,  droves  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep, 
all  thronging  the  road ;  the  snug  country  boxes  with  trim  flower 
gardens  twelve  feet  square,  and  their  trees  twelve  feet  high, 
all  powdered  with  dust;  and  the  innumerable  seminaries  for 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    109 

young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  situated  along  the  road,  for  the 
benefit  of  country  air  and  rural  retirement ;  all  these  insignia 
announced  that  the  mighty  London  was  at  hand.  The  hurry, 
and  the  crowd,  and  the  bustle,  and  the  noise,  and  the  dust, 
increased  as  we  proceeded,  until  I  saw  the  great  cloud  of  smoke 
hanging  in  the  air,  like  a  canopy  of  state,  over  this  queen  of 
cities. 

In  this  way,  then,  did  I  enter  the  metropolis;  a  strolling 
vagabond ;  on  the  top  of  a  caravan  with  a  crew  of  vagabonds 
about  me ;  but  I  was  as  happy  as  a  prince,  for,  like  Prince  Hal, 
1  felt  myself  superior  to  my  situation,  and  knew  that  I  could 
at  any  time  cast  it  off  and  emerge  into  my  proper  sphere. 

How  my  eyes  sparkled  as  we  passed  Hyde-park  corner,  and 
I  saw  splendid  equipages  rolling  by,  with  powdered  footmen 
behind,  in  rich  liveries,  and  fine  nosegays,  and  gold-headed 
canes ;  and  with  lovely  women  within,  so  sumptuously  dressed 
and  so  surpassingly  fair.  I  was  always  extremely  sensible  to 
female  beauty;  and  here  I  saw  it  in  all  its  fascination;  for, 
whater  may  be  said  of  "  beauty  unadorned, "  there  is  something 
almost  awful  in  female  loveliness  decked  out  in  jewelled  state. 
The  swan-like  neck  encircled  with  diamonds ;  the  raven  locks, 
clustered  with  pearls ;  the  ruby  glowing  on  the  snowy  bosom, 
are  objects  that  I  could  never  contemplate  without  emotion ; 
and  a  dazzling  white  arm  clasped  with  bracelets,  and  taper 
transparent  fingers  laden  with  sparkling  rings,  are  to  me  irre 
sistible.  My  very  eyes  ached  as  I  gazed  at  the  high  and  courtly 
beauty  that  passed  before  me.  It  surpassed  all  that  my  imagi 
nation  had  conceived  of  the  sex.  I  shrunk,  for  a  moment,  into 
shame  at  the  company  in  which  I  was  placed,  and  repined  at 
the  vast  distance  that  seemed  to  intervene  between  me  and 
these  magnificent  beings. 

I  forbear  to  give  a  detail  of  the  happy  life  which -I  led  about 
tlie  skirts  of  the  metropolis,  playing  at  the  various  fairs,  held 
there  during  the  latter  part  of  spring  and  the  beginning  of 
summer.  This  continual  change  from  place  to  place,  and  scene 
to  scene,  fed  my  imagination  with  novelties,  and  kept  my 
spirits  in  a  perpetual  state  of  excitement. 

As  I  was  tall  of  my  age  I  aspired,  at  one  time,  to  play  heroes 
in  tragedy ;  but  after  two  or  three  trials,  I  was  pronounced,  by 
the  manager,  totally  unfit  for  the  line;  and  our  first  tragic 
actress,  who  was  a  large  woman,  and  held  a  small  hero  'in 
abhorrence,  confirmed  his  decision. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  attempted  to  give  point  to  language  which 


110  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

had  no  point,  and  nature  to  scenes  which  had  no  nature.  They 
said  I  did  not  fill  out  my  characters ;  and  they  were  right  The 
characters  had  all  been  prepared  for  a  different  sort  of  man. 
Our  tragedy  hero  was  a  round,  robustious  fellow,  with  an  amaz 
ing  voice ;  who  stamped  and  slapped  his  breast  until  his  wig 
shook  again ;  and  who  roared  and  bellowed  out  his  bombast, 
until  every  phrase  swelled  upon  the  ear  like  the  sound  of  a 
kettle-drum.  I  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  fill  out  his 
clothes  as  his  characters.  When  we  had  a  dialogue  together,  I 
was  nothing  before  him,  with  my  slender  voice  and  discrimin 
ating  manner.  I  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  parry  a 
cudgel  with  a  small  sword.  If  he  found  me  in  any  way  gaining 
ground  upon  him,  he  would  take  refuge  in  his  mighty  voice, 
and  throw  his  tones  like  peals  of  thunder  at  me,  until  they  were 
drowned  in  the  still  louder  thunders  of  applause  from  the 
audience. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  suspect  that  I  was  not  shown  fair  play, 
and  that  there  was  management  at  the  bottom ;  for  without 
vanity,  I  think  I  was  a  better  actor  than  he.  As  I  had  not 
embarked  in  the  vagabond  line  through  ambition,  I  did  not 
repine  at  lack  of  preferment ;  but  I  was  grieved  to  find  that  a 
vagrant  life  was  not  without  its  cares  and  anxieties,  and  that 
jealousies,  intrigues,  and  mad  ambition  were  to  be  found  even 
among  vagabonds. 

Indeed,  as  I  become  more  familiar  with  my  situation,  and 
the  delusions  of  fancy  began  to  fade  away,  I  discovered  that 
my  associates  were  not  the  happy  careless  creatures  I  had  at 
first  imagined  them.  They  were  jealous  of  each  other's  talents ; 
they  quarrelled  about  parts,  the  same  as  the  actors  on  the 
grand  theatres ;  they  quarrelled  about  dresses ;  and  there  was 
one  robe  of  yellow  silk,  trimmed  with  red,  and  a  head-dress  of 
three  rumpled  ostrich  feathers,  which  were  continually  setting 
the  ladies  of  the  company  by  the  ears.  Even  those  who  had 
attained  the  highest  honors  were  not  more  happy  than  the  rest ; 
for  Mr.  Flimsey  himself,  our  first  tragedian,  and  apparently 
a  jovial,  good-humored  fellow,  confessed  to  me  one  day,  in 
the  fullness  of  his  heart,  that  he  was  a  miserable  man.  He 
had  a  brother-in-law,  a  relative  by  marriage,  though  not  by 
blood,  who  was  manager  of  a  theatre  in  a  small  country  town. 
And  this  same  brother,  ("a  little  more  than  kin,  but  less  than 
kind,")  looked  down  upon  him,  and  treated  him  with  con 
tumely,  because  forsooth  he  was  but  a  strolling  player.  I 
tried  to  console  him  with  11  :;ghts  of  the  vast  applause  he 


THE  70UNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    HI 

daily  received,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  He  declared  that  it  gave 
him  no  delight,  and  that  he  should  never  be  a  happy  man  until 
the  name  of  Flimsey  rivalled  the  name  of  Crimp. 

How  little  do  those  before  the  scenes  know  of  what  passes 
behind ;  how  little  can  they  judge,  from  the  countenances  of 
actors,  of  what  is  passing  in  their  hearts.  I  have  known  two 
lovers  quarrel  like  cats  behind  the  scenes,  who  were,  the 
moment  after,  ready  to  fly  into  each  other's  embraces.  And  I 
have  dreaded,  when  our  Belvidera  was  to  take  her  farewell  kiss 
of  her  Jaffier,  lest  she  should  bite  a  piece  out  of  his  cheek.  Oiu? 
tragedian  was  a  rough  joker  off  the  stage ;  our  prime  clown  the 
most  peevish  mortal  living.  The  latter  used  to  go  about  snap 
ping  and  snarling,  with  a  broad  laugh  painted  on  his  counten 
ance  ;  and  I  can  assure  you  that,  whatever  may  be  said  of  the 
gravity  of  a  monkey,  or  the  melancholy  of  a  gibed  cat,  there 
is  no  more  melancholy  creature  in  existence  than  a  mounte 
bank  off  duty. 

The  only  thing  in  which  all  parties  agreed  was  to  backbite 
the  manager,  and  cabal  against  his  regulations.  This,  how 
ever,  I  have  since  discovered  to  be  a  common  trait  of  human 
nature,  and  to  take  place  in  all  communities.  It  would  seem 
to  be  the  main  business  of  man  to  repine  at  government.  In 
all  situations  of  life  into  which  I  have  looked,  I  have  found 
mankind  divided  into  two  grand  parties ; — those  who  ride  and 
those  who  are  ridden.  The  great  struggle  of  life  seems  to  be 
which  shall  keep  in  the  saddle.  This,  it  appears  to  me,  is  the 
fundamental  principle  of  politics,  whether  in  great  or  little 
life.  However,  I  do  not  mean  to  moralize;  but  one  cannot 
always  sink  the  philosopher. 

Well,  then,  to  return  to  myself.  It  was  determined,  as  I 
said,  that  I  was  not  fit  for  tragedy,  and  unluckily,  as  my  study 
was  bad,  having  a  very  poor  memory,  I  was  pronounced  unfit 
for  comedy  also:  besides,  the  line  of  young  gentlemen  was 
already  engrossed  by  an  actor  with  whom  I  could  not  pretend 
to  enter  into  competition,  he  having  filled  it  for  almost  half  a 
century.  I  came  down  again  therefore  to  pantomime.  In 
consequence,  however,  of  the  good  offices  of  the  manager's 
lady,  who  had  taken  a  liking  to  me,  I  was  promoted  from  the 
part  of  the  satyr  to  that  of  the  lover ;  and  with  my  face  patched 
and  painted,  a  huge  cravat  of  paper,  a  steeple-crowned  hat, 
and  dangling,  long-skirted,  sky-blue  coat,  was  metamorphosed 
into  the  lover  of  Columbine.  My  part  did  not  call  for  much  of 
the  tender  and  sentimental.  I  had  merely  to  pursue  the  fugi- 


TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

tive  fair  one ;  to  have  a  door  now  and  then  slammed  in  my 
face ;  to  run  my  head  occasionally  against  a  post ;  to  tumble 
and  roll  about  with  Pantaloon  and  the  clown ;  and  to  endure 
the  hearty  thwacks  of  Harlequin's  wooden  sword. 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  my  poetical  temperament  began  to 
ferment  within  me,  and  to  work  out  new  troubles.  The 
inflammatory  air  of  a  great  metropolis  added  to  the  rural 
scenes  in  which  the  fairs  were  held ;  such  as  Greenwich  Park ; 
Epping  Forest ;  and  the  lovely  valley  of  the  West  End,  had  a 
powerful  effect  upon  me.  While  in  Greenwich  Park  I  was 
witness  to  the  old  holiday  games  of  running  down  hill ;  and 
kissing  in  the  ring;  and  then  the  firmament  of  blooming  faces 
and  blue  eyes  that  would  be  turned  towards  me  as  I  was  play 
ing  antics  on  the  stage ;  all  these  set  my  young  blood,  and  my 
poetical  vein,  in  full  flow.  In  short,  I  played  my  character  to 
the  life,  and  became  desperately  enamored  of  Columbine.  She 
was  a  trim,  well-made,  tempting  girl,  with  a  rougish,  dimpling 
face,  and  fine  chesnut  hair  clustering  all  about  it.  The  moment 
I  got  fairly  smitten,  there  was  an  end  to  all  playing.  I  was 
such  a  creature  of  fancy  and  feeling  that  I  could  not  put  on  a 
pretended,  when  I  was  powerfully  affected  by  a  real  emotion. 
I  could  not  sport  with  a  fiction  that  came  so  near  to  the  fact. 
I  became  too  natural  in  my  acting  to  succeed.  And  then,  what 
a  situation  for  a  lover !  I  was  a  mere  stripling,  and  she  played 
with  my  passion ;  for  girls  soon  grow  more  adroit  and  knowing 
in  these  than  your  awkward  youngsters.  What  agonies  had  I 
to  suffer.  Every  time  that  she  danced  in  front  of  the  booth 
and  made  such  liberal  displays  of  her  charms,  I  was  in  tor 
ment.  To  complete  my  misery,  I  had  a  real  rival  in  Harlequin ; 
an  active,  vigorous,  knowing  varlet  of  six-and-twenty.  What 
had  a  raw,  inexperienced  youngster  like  me  to  hope  from  such 
a  competition? 

I  had  still,  however,  some  advantages  in  my  favor.  In  spite 
of  my  change  of  life,  I  retained  that  indescribable  something 
which  always  distinguishes  the  gentleman;  that  something 
which  dwells  in  a  man's  air  and  deportment,  and  not  in  his 
clothes ;  and  which  it  is  as  difficult  for  a  gentleman  to  put  off 
as  for  a  vulgar  fellow  to  put  on.  The  company  generally  felt 
it,  and  used  to  call  me  little  gentleman  Jack.  The  girl  felt  it 
too ;  and  in  spite  of  her  predilection  for  my  powerful  rival,  she 
liked  to  flirt  with  me.  This  only  aggravated  my  troubles,  by 
increasing  my  passion,  and  awakening  the  jealousy  of  her 
parti-colored  lover. 


THE   YOUNG   MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS     H3 

Alas !  think  what  I  suffered,  at  being  obliged  to  keep  up  an 
ineffectual  chase  after  my  Columbine  through  whole  panto- 
mines  ;  to  see  her  carried  off  in  the  vigorous  arms  of  the  happy 
Harlequin;  and  to  be  obliged,  instead  of  snatching  her  from 
him,  to  tumble  sprawling  with  Pantaloon  and  the  clown ;  and 
bear  the  infernal  and  degrading  thwacks  of  my  rival's  weapon 
of  lath ;  which,  may  heaven  confound  him !  (excuse  my  pas 
sion)  the  villain  laid  on  with  a  malicious  good-will;  nay,  I 
could  absolutely  hear  him  chuckle  and  laugh  beneath  his 
accursed  mask — I  beg  pardon  for  growing  a  little  warm  in  my 
narration.  I  wish  to  be  cool,  but  these  recollections  will  some 
times  agitate  me.  I  have  heard  and  read  of  many  desperate 
and  deplorable  situations  of  lovers ;  but  none,  I  think,  in  which 
fcrue  Jove  was  ever  exposed  to  so  severe  and  peculiar  a  trial. 

This  could  not  last  long.  Flesh  and  blood,  at  least  such  flesh 
and  blood  as  mine,  could  not  bear  it.  I  had  repeated  heart 
burnings  and  quarrels  with  my  rival,  in  which  he  treated  me 
with  the  mortifying  forbearance  of  a  man  towards  a  child. 
Had  he  quarrelled  outright  with  me,  I  could  have  stomached 
it ;  at  least  I  should  have  known  what  part  to  take ;  but  to  be 
humored  and  treated  as  a  child  in  the  presence  of  my  mistress, 
when  I  felt  all  the  bantam  spirit  of  a  little  man  swelling  within 
me — gods,  it  was  insufferable ! 

At  length  we  were  exhibiting  one  day  at  West  End  fair, 
which  was  at  that  time  a  very  fashionable  resort,  and  often 
beleaguered  by  gay  equipages  from  town.  Among  the  spec 
tators  that  filled  the  front  row  of  our  little  canvas  theatre  one 
afternoon,  when  I  had  to  figure  in  a  pantomine,  was  a  party  of 
young  ladies  from  a  boarding-school,  with  their  governess. 
Guess  my  confusion,  when,  in  the  midst  of  my  antics,  I  beheld 
among  the  number  my  quondam  flame;  her  whom  I  had 
be-rhymed  at  school ;  her  for  whose  charms  I  had  smarted  so 
severely;  the  cruel  Sacharissa!  What  was  worse,  I  fancied 
she  recollected  me ;  and  was  repeating  the  story  of  my  humilat- 
ing  flagellation,  for  I  saw  her  whispering  her  companions  and 
her  governess.  I  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  part  I  was  acting, 
and  of  the  place  where  I  was.  I  felt  shrunk  to  nothing,  and 
could  have  crept  into  a  rat-hole — unluckily,  none  was  open  to 
receive  me.  Before  I  could  recover  from  my  confusion,  I  was 
tumbled  over  by  Pantaloon  and  the  clown ;  and  I  felt  the  sword 
of  Harlequin  making  vigorous  assaults,  in  a  manner  most 
degrading  to  my  dignity. 

Heaven  and  earth !  was  I  again  to  suffer  martyrdom  in  this 


TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

ignominious  manner,  in  the  knowledge,  and  even  before  the 
very  eyes  of  this  most  beautiful,  but  most  disdainful  of  fair 
ones  ?  All  my  long-smothered  wrath  broke  out  at  once ;  the 
dormant  feelings  of  the  gentleman  arose  within  me ;  stung  to 
the  quick  by  intolerable  mortification,  I  sprang  on  my  feet  in 
an  instant ;  leaped  upon  Harlequin  like  a  young  tiger ;  tore  oil 
his  mask ;  buffeted  him  in  the  face,  and  soon  shed  more  blood 
on  the  stage  than  had  been  spilt  upon  it  during  a  whole  tragic 
campaign  of  battles  and  murders. 

As  soon  as  Harlequin  recovered  from  his  surprise  he  returned 
my  assault  with  interest.  I  was  nothing  in  his  hands.  I  was 
game  to  be  sure,  for  I  was  a  gentleman ;  but  he  had  the  clown 
ish  advantages  of  bone  and  muscle.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  have 
fought  even  unto  the  death ;  and  I  was  likely  to  do  so ;  for  he 
was,  according  to  the  vulgar  phrase,  ' '  putting  my  head  into 
Chancery,"  when  the  gentle  Columbine  flew  to  my  assistance. 
God  bless  the  women ;  they  are  always  on  the  side  of  the  weak 
and  the  oppressed. 

The  battle  now  became  general ;  the  dramatis  personee  ranged 
on  either  side.  The  manager  interfered  in  vain.  In  vain 
were  his  spangled  black  bonnet  and  towering  white  feathers 
seen  whisking  about,  and  nodding,  and  bobbing,  in  the  thickest 
of  the  fight.  Warriors,  ladies,  priests,  satyrs,  kings,  queens, 
gods  and  goddesses,  all  joined  pell-mell  in  the  fray.  Never, 
since  the  conflict  under  the  walls  of  Troy,  had  there  been  such 
a  chance  medley  warfare  of  combatants,  human  and  divine. 
The  audience  applauded,  the  ladies  shrieked  and  fled  from  the 
theatre,  and  a  scene  of  discord  ensued  that  baffles  all  descrip 
tion. 

Nothing  but  the  interference  of  the  peace  officers  restored 
some  degree  of  order.  The  havoc,  however,  that  had  been 
made  among  dresses  and  decorations  put  an  end  to  all  farther 
acting  for  that  day.  The  battle  over,  the  next  thing  was  to 
inquire  why  it  was  begun;  a  common  question  among  poli 
ticians,  after  a  bloody  and  unprofitable  war ;  and  one  not  always 
easy  to  be  answered.  It  was  soon  traced  to  me,  and  my  unac 
countable  transport  of  passion,  which  they  could  only  attribute 
to  my  having  run  a  muck.  The  manager  was  judge  and  jury, 
and  plaintiff  in  the  bargain,  and  in  such  cases  justice  is  always 
speedily  administered.  He  came  out  of  the  fight  as  sublime  a 
wreck  as  the  Santissima  Trinidada.  His  gallant  plumes,  which 
once  towered  aloft,  were  drooping  about  his  ears.  His  robe  oi 
Btate  hung  in  ribbands  from  his  back,  and  but  ill  conceived  the 


THE  TO  UNO  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     H5 

ravages  he  had  suffered  in  the  rear.  He  had  received  kicks 
and  cuffs  from  all  sides,  during  the  tumult ;  for  every  one  took 
the  opportunity  of  slyly  gratifying  some  lurking  grudge  on  his 
fat  carcass.  He  was  a  discreet  man,  and  did  not  choose  to 
declare  war  with  all  his  company ;  so  he  swore  all  those  kicks 
and  cuffs  had  been  given  by  me,  and  I  let  him  enjoy  the  opin 
ion.  Some  wounds  he  bore,  however,  which  were  the  incontes- 
tible  traces  of  a  woman's  warfare.  His  sleek  rosy  cheek  was 
scored  by  trickling  furrows,  which  were  ascribed  to  the  nails 
of  my  intrepid  and  devoted  Columbine.  The  ire  of  the  mon 
arch  was  not  to  be  appeased.  He  had  suffered  in  his  person, 
and  he  had  suffered  in  his  purse;  his  dignity  too  had  been 
insulted,  and  that  went  for  something ;  for  dignity  is  always 
more  irascible  the  more  petty  the  potentate.  He  wreaked  his 
wrath  upon  the  beginners  of  the  affray,  and  Columbine  and 
myself  were  discharged,  at  once,  from  the  company. 

Figure  me,  then,  to  yourself,  a  stripling  of  little  more  than 
sixteen ;  a  gentleman  by  birth ;  a  vagabond  by  trade ;  turned 
adrift  upon  the  world ;  making  the  best  of  my  way  through 
the  crowd  of  West  End  fair ;  my  mountebank  dress  fluttering 
in  rags  about  me;  the  weeping  Columbine  hanging  upon  my 
arm,  in  splendid,  but  tattered  finery;  the  tears  coursing  one 
by  one  down  her  face ;  carrying  off  the  red  paint  in  torrents, 
and  literally  "preying  upon  her  damask  cheek." 

The  crowd  made  way  for  us  as  we  passed  and  hooted  in  our 
rear.  I  felt  the  ridicule  of  my  situation,  but  had  too  much 
gallantry  to  desert  this  fair  one,  who  had  sacrificed  everything 
for  me.  Having  wandered  through  the  fair,  we  emerged,  like 
another  Adam  and  Eve,  into  unknown  regions,  and  "had  the 
world  before  us  where  to  choose."  Never  was  a  more  disconso 
late  pair  seen  in  the  soft  valley  of  West  End.  The  luckless 
Columbine  cast  back  many  a  lingering  look  at  the  fair,  which 
seemed  to  put  on  a  more  than  usual  splendor ;  its  tents,  and 
booths,  and  parti-colored  groups,  all  brightening  in  the  sun 
shine,  and  gleaming  among  the  trees;  and  its  gay  flags  and 
streamers  playing  and  fluttering  in  the  light  summer  airs. 
With  a  heavy  sigh  she  would  lean  on  my  arm  and  proceed.  I 
had  no  hope  or  consolation  to  give  her ;  but  she  had  linked  her 
self  to  my  fortunes,  and  she  was  too  much  of  a  woman  to 
desert  me. 

Pensive  and  silent,  then,  we  traversed  the  beautiful  fields 
that  lie  behind  Hempstead,  and  wandered  on,  until  the  fiddle, 
and  the  hautboy,  and  the  shout,  and  the  laugh,  were  swallowed 


116  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

up  in  the  deep  sound  of  the  big  bass  drum,  and  even  that  died 
away  into  a  distant  rumble.  We  passed  along  the  pleasant 
sequestered  walk  of  Nightingale  lane.  For  a  pair  of  lovers 
what  scene  could  be  more  propitious?— But  such  a  pair  of 
lovers !  Not  a  nightingale  sang  to  soothe  us :  the  very  gypsies 
who  were  encamped  there  during  the  fair,  made  no  offer  to  tell 
the  fortunes  of  such  an  ill-omened  couple,  whose  fortunes,  I 
suppose,  they  thought  too  legibly  written  to  need  an  inter 
preter  ;  and  the  gypsey  children  crawled  into  their  cabins  and 
peeped  out  fearfully  at  us  as  we  went  by.  For  a  moment  I 
paused,  and  was  almost  tempted  to  turn  gypsey,  but  the  poet 
ical  feeling  for  the  present  was  fully  satisfied,  and  I  passed  on. 
Thus  we  travelled,  and  travelled,  like  a  prince  and  princess  in 
nursery  chronicle,  until  we  had  traversed  a  part  of  Hempstead 
Heath  and  arrived  in  the  vicinity  of  Jack  Straw's  castle. 

Here,  wearied  and  dispirited,  we  seated  ourselves  on  the 
margin  of  the  hill,  hard  by  the  very  mile-stone  where  Whitting- 
ton  of  yore  heard  the  Bow  bells  ring  out  the  presage  of  his 
future  greatness.  Alas !  no  bell  rung  in  invitation  to  us,  as  we 
looked  disconsolately  upon  the  distant  city.  Old  London 
seemed  to  wrap  itself  up  unsociably  in  its  mantle  of  brown 
smoke,  and  to  offer  no  encouragement  to  such  a  couple  of 
tatterdemalions. 

For  once,  at  least,  the  usual  course  of  the  pantomime  was 
reversed.  Harlequin  was  jilted,  and  the  lover  had  carried  off 
Columbine  in  good  earnest.  But  what  was  I  to  do  with  her? 
I  had  never  contemplated  such  a  dilemma ;  and  I  now  felt  that 
even  a  fortunate  lover  may  be  embarrassed  by  his  good  for 
tune.  I  really  knew  not  what  was  to  become  of  me ;  for  I  had 
still  the  boyish  fear  of  returning  home ;  standing  in  awe  of  the 
stern  temper  of  my  father,  and  dreading  the  ready  arm  of  the 
pedagogue.  And  even  if  I  were  to  venture  home,  what  was  I 
to  do  with  Columbine?  I  could  not  take  her  in  my  hand,  and 
throw  myself  on  my  knees,  and  crave  his  forgiveness  and  his 
blessing  according  to  dramatic  usage.  The  very  dogs  would 
have  chased  such  a  draggle-tailed  beauty  from  the  grounds. 

In  the  midst  of  my  doleful  dumps,  some  one  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  looking  up  I  saw  a  couple  of  rough  sturdy 
fellows  standing  behind  me.  Not  knowing  what  to  expect  I 
jumped  on  my  legs,  and  was  preparing  again  to  make  battle; 
but  I  was  tripped  up  and  secured  in  a  twinkling. 

' '  Come,  come,  young  master, "  said  one  of  the  fellows  in  a 
but  good-humored  tone,  ' '  don't  let's  have  any  of  your 


THE  TO  UNO  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     117 

tantrums ;  one  would  have  thought  that  you  had  had  swing 
enough  for  this  bout.  Come,  it's  high  time  to  leave  off  harle- 
quinading,  and  go  home  to  your  father." 

In  fact  I  had  a  couple  of  Bow  street  officers  hold  of  me.  The 
cruel  Sacharissa  had  proclaimed  who  I  was,  and  that  a  reward 
had  been  offered  throughout  the  country  for  any  tidings  of  me ; 
and  they  had  seen  a  description  of  me  that  had  been  forwarded 
to  the  police  office  in  town.  Those  harpies,  therefore,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  filthy  lucre,  were  resolved  to  deliver  me  over  into 
the  hands  of  my  father  and  the  clutches  of  my  pedagogue. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  swore  I  would  not  leave  my  faithful  and 
afflicted  Columbine.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  tore  myself  from 
their  grasp,  and  flew  to  her ;  and  vowed  to  protect  her ;  and 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  cheek,  and  with  them  a  whole  blush 
that  might  have  vied  with  the  carnation  for  brilliancy.  My 
persecutors  were  inflexible ;  they  even  seemed  to  exult  in  our 
distress ;  and  to  enjoy  this  theatrical  display  of  dirt,  and  finery, 
and  tribulation.  I  was  carried  off  in  despair,  leaving  my 
Columbine  destitute  in  the  wide  world ;  but  many  a  look  of 
agony  did  I  cast  back  at  her,  as  she  stood  gazing  piteously  after 
me  from  the  brink  of  Hempstead  Hill ;  so  forlorn,  so  fine,  so 
ragged,  so  bedraggled,  yet  so  beautiful. 

Thus  ended  my  first  peep  into  the  world.  I  returned  home, 
rich  in  good-for-nothing  experience,  and  dreading  the  reward  I 
was  to  receive  for  my  improvement.  My  reception,  however, 
was  quite  different  from  what  I  had  expected.  My  father  had 
a  spice  of  the  devil  in  him,  and  did  not  seem  to  like  me  the 
worse  for  my  freak,  which  he  termed  "  sowing  my  wild  oats." 
He  happened  to  have  several  of  his  sporting  friends  to  dine 
with  him  the  very  day  of  my  return ;  they  made  me  tell  some 
of  my  adventures,  and  laughed  heartily  at  them.  One  old  fel 
low,  with  an  outrageously  red  nose,  took  to  me  hugely.  I 
heard  him  whisper  to  my  father  that  I  was  a  lad  of  mettle,  and 
might  make  something  clever ;  to  which  my  father  replied  that 
"  I  had  good  points,  but  was  an  ill-broken  whelp,  and  required 
a  great  deal  of  the  whip."  Perhaps  this  very  conversation 
raised  me  a  little  in  his  esteem,  for  I  found  the  red-nosed  old 
gentleman  was  a  veteran  fox-hunter  of  the  neighborhood,  for 
whose  opinion  my  father  had  vast  deference.  Indeed,  I  believe 
he  would  have  pardoned  anything  in  me  more  readily  than 
poetry;  which  he  called  a  cursed,  sneaking,  puling,  house 
keeping  employment,  the  bane  of  all  true  manhood.  He  swore 
it  was  unworthy  of  a  youngster  of  my  expectations,  who  was 


1J8  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

one  day  to  have  so  great  an  estate,  and  would  be  able  to  keep 
horses  and  hounds  and  hire  poets  to  write  songs  for  him  into 
the  bargain. 

I  had  now  satisfied,  for  a  time,  my  roving  propensity.  I  had 
exhausted  the  poetical  feeling.  I  had  been  heartily  buffeted 
out  of  my  love  for  theatrical  display.  I  felt  humiliated  by  my 
exposure,  and  was  willing  to  hide  my  head  anywhere  for  a 
season ;  so  that  I  might  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  ridicule  of  the 
world ;  for  I  found  folks  not  altogether  so  indulgent  abroad  as 
they  were  at  my  father's  table.  I  could  not  stay  at  home ;  the 
house  was  intolerably  doleful  now  that  my  mother  was  no  longer 
there  to  cherish  me.  Every  thing  around  spoke  mournfully  of 
her.  The  little  flower-garden  in  which  she  delighted  was  all  in 
disorder  and  overrun  with  weeds.  I  attempted,  for  a  day  or 
two,  to  arrange  it,  but  my  heart  grew  heavier  and  heavier  as  I 
labored.  Every  little  broken-down  flower  that  I  had  seen  her 
rear  so  tenderly,  seemed  to  plead  in  mute  eloquence  to  my 
feelings.  There  was  a  favorite  honeysuckle  which  I  had  seen 
her  often  training  with  assiduity,  and  had  heard  her  say  it 
should  be  the  pride  of  her  garden.  I  found  it  grovelling  along 
the  ground,  tangled  and  wild,  and  twining  round  every  worth 
less  weed,  and  it  struck  me  as  an  emblem  of  myself :  a  mere 
scatterling,  running  to  waste  and  uselessness.  I  could  work  no 
longer  in  the  garden. 

My  father  sent  me  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  uncle,  by  way  of 
keeping  the  old  gentleman  in  mind  of  me.  I  was  received,  as 
usual,  without  any  expression  of  discontent ;  which  we  always 
considered  equivalent  to  a  hearty  welcome.  Whether  he  had 
ever  heard  of  my  strolling  freak  or  not  I  could  not  discover ;  he 
and  his  man  were  both  so  taciturn.  I  spent  a  day  or  two 
roaming  about  the  dreary  mansion  and  neglected  park ;  and 
felt  at  one  time,  I  believe,  a  touch  of  poetry,  for  I  was  tempted 
to  drown  myself  in  a  fish-pond ;  I  rebuked  the  evil  spirit,  how 
ever,  and  it  left  me.  I  found  the  same  red-headed  boy  running 
wild  about  the  park,  but  I  felt  in  no  humor  to  hunt  him  at 
present.  On  the  contrary,  I  tried  to  coax  him  to  me,  and  to 
make  friends  with  him,  but  the  young  savage  was  untameable. 

When  I  returned  from  my  uncle's  I  remained  at  home  for 
some  time,  for  my  father  was  disposed,  he  said,  to  make  a  man 
of  me.  He  took  me  out  hunting  with  him,  and  I  became  a 
great  favorite  of  the  red-nosed  squire,  because  I  rode  at  every 
thing  ;  never  refused  the  boldest  leap,  and  was  always  sure  to 
be  in  at  the  death.  I  used  often,  however,  to  offend  my  father 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     H9 

at  hunting  dinners,  by  taking  the  wrong  side  in  politics.  My 
father  was  amazingly  ignorant — so  ignorant,  in  fact,  as  not  to 
know  that  he  knew  nothing.  He  was  staunch,  however,  to 
church  and  king,  and  full  of  old-fashioned  prejudices.  Now,  I 
had  picked  up  a  little  knowledge  in  politics  and  religion,  during 
my  rambles  with  the  strollers,  and  found  myself  capable  of  set 
ting  him  right  as  to  many  of  his  antiquated  notions.  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  do  so ;  we  were  apt,  therefore,  to  differ  occasionally 
in  the  political  discussions  that  sometimes  arose  at  these  hunt 
ing  dinners. 

I  was  at  that  age  when  a  man  knows  least  and  is  most  vain 
of  his  knowledge ;  and  when  he  is  extremely  tenacious  in  defend 
ing  his  opinion  upon  subjects  about  which  he  knows  nothing. 
My  father  was  a  hard  man  for  any  one  to  argue  with,  for  he 
never  knew  when  he  was  refuted.  I  sometimes  posed  him  a 
little,  but  then  he  had  one  argument  that  always  settled  the 
question ;  he  would  threaten  to  knock  me  down.  I  believe  he 
at  last  grew  tired  of  me,  because  I  both  out-talked  and  outrode 
him.  The  red-nosed  squire,  too,  got  out  of  conceit  of  me,  be 
cause  in  the  heat  of  the  chase,  I  rode  over  him  one  day  as  he 
and  his  horse  lay  sprawling  in  the  dirt.  My  father,  therefore, 
thought  it  high  time  to  send  me  to  college ;  and  accordingly  to 
Trinity  College  at  Oxford  was  I  sent. 

I  had  lost  my  habits  of  study  while  at  home;  and  I  was  not 
likely  to  find  them  again  at  college.  I  found  that  study  was 
not  the  fashion  at  college,  and  that  a  lad  of  spirit  only  ate  his 
terms ;  and  grew  wise  by  dint  of  knife  and  fork.  I  was  always 
prone  to  follow  the  fashions  of  the  company  into  which  I  fell ; 
so  I  threw  by  my  books,  and  became  a  man  of  spirit.  As  my 
father  made  me  a  tolerable  allowance,  notwithstanding  the 
narrowness  of  his  income,  having  an  eye  always  to  my  great 
expectations,  I  was  enabled  to  appear  to  advantage  -among  my 
fellow-students.  I  cultivated  all  kinds  of  sports  and  exercises. 
I  was  one  of  the  most  expert  oarsmen  that  rowed  on  the  Isis. 
I  boxed  and  fenced.  I  was  a  keen  huntsman,  and  my  chambers 
in  college  were  always  decorated  with  whips  of  all  kinds,  spurs, 
foils,  and  boxing  gloves.  A  pair  of  leather  breeches  would 
seem  to  be  throwing  one  leg  out  of  the  half -open  drawers,  and 
empty  bottles  lumbered  the  bottom  of  every  closet. 

I  soon  grew  tired  of  this,  and  relapsed  into  my  vein  of  mere 
poetical  indulgence.  I  was  charmed  with  Oxford,  for  it  was 
full  of  poetry  to  me.  I  thought  I  should  never  grow  tired  of 
wandering  about  its  courts  and  cloisters ;  and  visiting  the  dif- 


120  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLEE. 

ferent  college  nails.  I  used  to  love  to  get  in  places  surrounded 
by  the  colleges,  where  all  modern  buildings  were  screened  from 
the  sight ;  and  to  walk  about  them  in  twilight,  and  see  the  pro 
fessors  and  students  sweeping  along  in  the  dusk  in  their  caps 
and  gowns.  There  was  complete  delusion  in  the  scene.  It 
seemed  to  transport  me  among  the  edifices  and  the  people  of 
old  times.  It  was  a  great  luxury,  too,  for  me  to  attend  the 
evening  service  in  the  new  college  chapel,  and  to  hear  the  fine 
organ  and  the  choir  swelling  an  anthem  in  that  solemn  build 
ing  ;  where  painting  and  music  and  architecture  seem  to  com 
bine  their  grandest  effects. 

I  became  a  loiterer,  also,  about  the  Bodleian  library,  and  a 
great  dipper  into  books;  but  too  idle  to  follow  any  course  of 
study  or  vein  of  research.  One  of  my  favorite  haunts  was  the 
beautiful  walk,  bordered  by  lofty  elms,  along  the  Isis,  under 
the  old  gray  walls  of  Magdalen  College,  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  Addison's  Walk ;  and  was  his  resort  when  a  student 
at  the  college.  I  used  to  take  a  volume  of  poetry  in  my  hand, 
and  stroll  up  and  down  this  walk  for  hours. 

My  father  came  to  see  me  at  college.  He  asked  me  how  I 
came  on  with  my  studies ;  and  what  kind  of  hunting  there  was 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  examined  my  sporting  apparatus; 
wanted  to  know  if  any  of  the  professors  were  fox-hunters ;  and 
whether  they  were  generally  good  shots ;  for  he  suspected  this 
reading  so  much  was  rather  hurtful  to  the  sight.  Such  was  the 
only  person  to  whom  I  was  responsible  for  my  improvement : 
is  it  matter  of  wonder,  therefore,  that  I  became  a  confirmed 
idler? 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  I  cannot  be  idle  long  without 
getting  in  love.  I  became  deeply  smitten  with  a  shopkeeper's 
daughter  in  the  high  street ;  who  in  fact  was  the  admiration  of 
many  of  the  students.  I  wrote  several  sonnets  in  praise  of  her, 
and  spent  half  of  my  pocket-money  at  the  shop,  in  buying  arti 
cles  which  I  did  not  want,  that  I  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her.  Her  father,  a  severe-looking  old  gentleman, 
with  bright  silver  buckles  and  a  crisp,  curled  wig,  kept  a  strict 
guard  on  her;  as  the  fathers  generally  do  upon  their  daughters 
in  Oxford ;  and  well  they  may.  I  tried  to  get  into  his  good 
graces,  and  to  be  sociable  with  him;  but  in  vain.  I  said  several 
good  things  in  his  shop,  but  he  never  laughed ;  he  had  no  relish 
for  wit  and  humor.  He  was  one  of  those  dry  old  gentlemen 
who  keep  youngsters  at  bay.  He  had  already  brought  up  two 
or  three  daughters,  and  was  experienced  in  the  ways  of  students. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    121 

He  was  as  knowing  and  wary  as  a  gray  old  badger  that  has 
often  been  hunted.  To  see  him  on  Sunday,  so  stiff  and  starched 
in  his  demeanor ;  so  precise  in  his  dress ;  with  his  daughter  under 
his  arm,  and  his  ivory -headed  cane  in  his  hand,  was  enough  to 
deter  all  graceless  youngsters  from  approaching. 

I  managed,  however,  in  spite  of  his  vigilance,  to  have  several 
conversations  with  the  daughter,  as  I  cheapened  articles  in  the 
shop.  I  made  terrible  long  bargains,  and  examined  the  articles 
over  and  over,  before  I  purchased.  In  the  meantime,  I  would 
convey  a  sonnet  or  an  acrostic  under  cover  of  a  piece  of  cam 
bric,  or  slipped  into  a  pair  of  stockings ;  I  would  whisper  soft 
nonsense  into  her  ear  as  I  haggled  about  the  price ;  and  would 
squeeze  her  hand  tenderly  as  I  received  my  halfpence  of  change, 
in  a  bit  of  whity -brown  paper.  Let  this  serve  as  a  hint  to  all 
haberdashers,  who  have  pretty  daughters  for  shop-girls,  and 
young  students  for  customers.  I  do  not  know  whether  my 
words  and  looks  were  very  eloquent ;  but  my  poetry  was  irre 
sistible  ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  girl  had  some  literary  taste, 
and  was  seldom  without  a  book  from  the  circulating  library. 

By  the  divine  power  of  poetry,  therefore,  which  is  irresistible 
with  the  lovely  sex,  did  I  subdue  the  heart  of  this  fair  little 
haberdasher.  We  carried  on  a  sentimental  correspondence  for 
a  time  across  the  counter,  and  I  supplied  her  with  rhyme  by 
the  stockingful.  At  length  I  prevailed  on  her  to  grant  me  an 
assignation.  But  how  was  it  to  be  effected?  Her  father  kept 
her  always  under  Ms  eye ;  she  never  walked  out  alone ;  and  the 
house  was  locked  up  the  moment  that  the  shop  was  shut.  All 
these  difficulties  served  but  to  give  zest  to  the  adventure.  I 
proposed  that  the  assignation  should  be  in  her  own  chamber 
into  which  I  would  climb  at  night.  The  plan  was  irresistible. 
A  cruel  father,  a  secret  lover,  and  a  clandestine  meeting !  All 
the  little  girl's  studies  from  the  circulating  library  seemed  about 
to  be  realized.  But  what  had  I  in  view  in  making  this  assigna 
tion?  Indeed  I  know  not.  I  had  no  evil  intentions;  nor  can  I 
say  that  I  had  any  good  ones.  I  liked  the  girl,  and  wanted  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  more  of  her ;  and  the  assignation 
was  made,  as  I  have  done  many  things  else,  heedlessly  and 
without  forethought.  I  asked  myself  a  few  questions  of  the 
kind,  after  all  my  arrangements  were  made ;  but  the  answers 
were  very  unsatisfactory.  "Am  I  to  ruin  this  poor  thoughtless 
girl?"  said  I  to  myself.  "No!"  was  the  prompt  and  indignant 
answer.  "Am  I  to  run  away  with  her?"  "Whither — and  to 
what  purpose?"  "Well,  then,  am  I  to  marry  her?"—"  Pah.!  a, 


122  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

man  of  my  expectations  marry  a  shopkeeper's  daughter!" 

"What,  then,  am  I  to  do  with  her?"  "  Hum— why. Let  me 

get  into  her  chamber  first,  and  then  consider  "—and  so  the  self- 
examination  ended. 

Well,  sir,  "  come  what  come  might,"  I  stole  under  cover  of 
the  darkness  to  the  dwelling  of  my  dulcinea.  All  was  quiet. 
At  the  concerted  signal  her  window  was  gently  opened.  It  was 
just  above  the  projecting  bow- window  of  her  father's  shop, 
which  assisted  me  in  mounting.  The  house  was  low,  and  I  was 
enabled  to  scale  the  fortress  with  tolerable  ease.  I  clambered 
with  a  beating  heart;  I  reached  the  casement;  I  hoisted  my 
body  half  into  the  chamber  and  was  welcomed,  not  by  the 
embraces  of  my  expecting  fair  one,  but  by  the  grasp  of  the 
crabbed-looking  old  father  in  the  crisp  curled  wig. 

I  extricated  myself  from  his  clutches  and  endeavored  to 
make  my  retreat;  but  I  was  confounded  by  his  cries  of 
thieves!  and  robbers!  I  was  bothered,  too,  by  his  Sunday 
cane;  which  was  amazingly  busy  about  my  head  as  I  de 
scended  ;  and  against  which  my  hat  was  but  a  poor  protec 
tion.  Never  before  had  I  an  idea  of  the  activity  of  an  old 
man's  arm,  and  hardness  of  the  knob  of  an  ivory-headed  cane. 
In  my  hurry  and  confusion  I  missed  my  footing,  and  fell 
sprawling  on  the  pavement.  I  was  immediately  surrounded 
by  myrmidons,  who  I  doubt  not  were  on  the  watch  for  me. 
Indeed,  I  was  in  no  situation  to  escape,  for  I  had  sprained  my 
ankle  in  the  fall,  and  could  not  stand.  I  was  seized  as  a  house 
breaker;  and  "to  exonerate  myself  from  a  greater  crime  I  had 
to  accuse  myself  of  a  less.  I  made  known  who  I  was,  and  why 
I  came  there.  Alas!  the  varlets  knew  it  already,  and  were 
only  amusing  themselves  at  my  expense.  My  perfidious  muse 
had  been  playing  me  one  of  her  slippery  tricks.  The  old  cur 
mudgeon  of  a  father  had  found  my  sonnets  and  acrostics  hid 
away  in  holes  and  corners  of  his  shop;  he  had  no  taste  for 
poetry  like  his  daughter,  and  had  instituted  a  rigorous  though 
silent  observation.  He  had  moused  upon  our  letters ;  detected 
the  ladder  of  ropes,  and  prepared  everything  for  my  reception. 
Thus  was  I  ever  doomed  to  be  led  into  scrapes  by  the  muse. 
Let  no  man  henceforth  carry  on  a  secret  amour  in  poetry. 

The  old  man's  ire  was  in  some  measure  appeased  by  the  pum 
melling  of  my  head,  and  the  anguish  of  my  sprain ;  so  he  did 
not  put  me  to  death  on  the  spot.  He  was  even  humane  enough 
to  furnish  a  shutter,  on  which  I  was  carried  back  to  the  college 
like  a  wounded  warrior.  The  porter  was  roused  to  admit  me; 


THE  TOUN&  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    123 

the  college  gate  was  thrown  open  for  ray  entry ;  the  affair  was 
blazed  abroad  the  next  morning,  and  became  the  joke  of  the 
college  from  the  buttery  to  the  hall. 

I  had  leisure  to  repent  during  several  weeks'  confinement  by 
my  sprain,  which  I  passed  in  translating  Boethius'  Consola 
tions  of  Philosophy.  I  received  a  most  tender  and  ill-spelled 
letter  from  my  mistress,  who  had  been  sent  to  a  relation  in 
Coventry.  She  protested  her  innocence  of  my  misfortunes, 
and  vowed  to  be  true  to  me  "till  death."  I  took  no  notice  of 
the  letter,  for  I  was  cured,  for  the  present,  both  of  love  and 
poetry.  Women,  however,  are  more  constant  in  their  attach 
ments  than  men,  whatever  philosophers  may  say  to  the  con 
trary.  I  am  assured  that  she  actually  remained  faithful  to  her 
vow  for  several  months ;  but  she  had  to  deal  with  a  cruel  father 
whose  heart  was  as  hard  as  the  knob  of  his  cane.  He  was  not 
to  be  touched  by  tears  or  poetry ;  but  absolutely  compelled  her 
to  marry  a  reputable  young  tradesman ;  who  made  her  a  happy 
woman  in  spite  of  herself,  and  of  all  the  rules  of  romance ;  and 
what  is  more,  the  mother  of  several  children.  They  are  at  this 
very  day  a  thriving  couple  and  keep  a  snug  corner  shop,  just 
opposite  the  figure  of  Peeping  Tom  at  Coventry. 

I  will  not"  fatigue  you  by  any  more  details  of  my  studies  at 
Oxford,  though  they  were  not  always  as  severe  as  these ;  nor 
did  I  always  pay  as  dear  for  my  lessons.  People  may  say  what 
they  please,  a  studious  life  has  its  charms,  and  there  are  many 
places  more  gloomy  than  the  cloisters  of  a  university. 

To  be  brief,  then,  I  lived  on  in  my  usual  miscellaneous  manner, 
gradually  getting  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  until  I  had  at 
tained  my  twenty-first  year.  I  had  scarcely  come  of  age  when 
I  heard  of  the  sddden  death  of  my  father.  The  shock  was  se 
vere,  for  though  he  had  never  treated  me  with  kindness,  still 
he  was  my  father,  and  at  his  death  I  felt  myself  alone  in  the 
world. 

I  returned  home  to  act  as  chief  mourner  at  his  funeral.  It 
was  attended  by  many  of  the  sportsmen  of  the  country ;  for  he 
was  an  important  member  of  their  fraternity.  According  to 
his  request  his  favorite  hunter  was  led  after  the  hearse.  The 
red-nosed  fox-hunter,  who  had  taken  a  little  too  much  wine  at 
the  house,  made  a  maudlin  eulogy  of  the  deceased,  and  wished 
to  give  the  view  halloo  over  the  grave ;  but  he  was  rebuked  by 
the  rest  of  the  company.  They  all  shook  me  kindly  by  the 
hand,  said  many  consolatory  things  to  me,  and  invited  me  to 
become  a  member  of  the  hunt  in  my  father's  plaee, 


124  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

When  I  found  myself  alone  in  my  paternal  home,  a  crowd  of 
gloomy  f  eelings  came  thronging  upon  me.  It  was  a  place  that 
always  seemed  to  sober  me,  and  bring  me  to  reflection.  Now, 
especially,  it  looked  so  deserted  and  melancholy ;  the  furniture 
diplaced  about  the  room ;  the  chairs  in  groups,  as  their  departed 
occupants  had  sat,  either  in  whispering  tete-a-tetes,  or  gossip 
ing  clusters ;  the  bottles  and  decanters  and  wine-glasses,  half 
emptied,  and  scattered  about  the  tables — all  dreary  traces  of  a 
funeral  festival.  I  entered  the  little  breakfasting  room.  There 
were  my  father's  whip  and  spurs  hanging  by  the  fire-place,  and 
his  favorite  pointer  lying  on  the  hearth-rug.  The  poor  animal 
came  fondling  about  me,  and  licked  my  hand,  though  he  had 
never  before  noticed  me ;  and  then  he  looked  round  the  room, 
and  whined,  and  wagged  his  tail  slightly,  and  gazed  wistfully 
in  my  face.  I  felt  the  full  force  of  the  appeal.  "Poor  Dash !" 
said  I,  "we  are  both  alone  in  the  world,  with  nobody  to  care 
for  us,  and  we'll  take  care  of  one  another. "  The  dog  never 
quitted  me  afterwards. 

I  could  not  go  into  my  mother's  room:  my  heart  swelled 
when  I  passed  within  sight  of  the  door.  Her  portrait  hung  in 
the  parlor,  just  over  the  place  where  she  used  to  sit.  As  I  cast 
my  eyes  on  it  I  thought  it  looked  at  me  with  tenderness,  and  I 
burst  into  tears.  My  heart  had  long  been  seared  by  living  in 
public  schools,  and  buffeting  about  among  strangers  who  cared 
nothing  for  me ;  but  the  recollection  of  a  mother's  tenderness 
was  overcoming. 

I  was  not  of  an  age  or  a  temperament  to  be  long  depressed. 
There  was  a  reaction  in  my  system  that  always  brought  me  up 
again  at  every  pressure ;  and  indeed  my  spirits  were  most  buoy 
ant  after  a  temporary  prostration.  I  settled  the  concerns  of  the 
estate  as  soon  as  possible;  realized  my  property,  which  was 
not  very  considerable,  but  which  appeared  a  vast  deal  to  me, 
having  a  poetical  eye  that  magnified  everything ;  and  finding 
myself,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  free  of  all  farther  business 
or  restraint,  I  determined  to  go  to  London  and  enjoy  myself. 
Why  should  not  I? — I  was  young,  animated,  joyous;  had 
plenty  of  funds  for  present  pleasures,  and  my  uncle's  estate  in 
the  perspective.  Let  those  mope  at  college  and  pore  over  books, 
thought  I,  who  have  their  way  to  make  in  the  world ;  it  would 
be  ridiculous  drudgery  in  a  youth  of  my  expectations. 

Well,  sir,  away  to  London  I  rattled  in  a  tandem,  determined 
to  take  the  town  gaily.  I  passed  through  several  of  the  villages 
where  I  had  played  the  jack-pudding  a  few  years  before ;  and 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  ORB  AT  EXPECTATIONS.    125 

I  visited  the  scenes  of  many  of  my  adventures  and  follies, 
merely  from  that  feeling  of  melancholy  pleasure  which  we  have 
in  stepping  again  into  the  footprints  of  foregone  existence,  even 
when  they  have  passed  among  weeds  and  briars.  I  made  a 
circuit  in  the  latter  part  of  my  journey,  so  as  to  take  in  West 
End  and  Hernpstead,  the  scenes  of  my  last  dramatic  exploit, 
and  of  the  battle  royal  of  the  booth.  As  I  drove  along  the 
ridge  of  Hempstead  Hill,  by  Jack  Straw's  castle,  I  paused  at 
the  spot  where  Columbine  and  I  had  sat  down  so  disconsolately 
in  our  ragged  finery,  and  looked  dubiously  upon  London.  I 
almost  expected  to  see  her  again,  standing  on  the  hill's  brink, 
"like  Niobe  all  tears ;"— mournful  as  Babylon  in  ruins! 

"  Poor  Columbine !"  said  I,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  thou  wert  a 
gallant,  generous  girl— a  true  woman,  faithful  to  the  dis 
tressed,  and  ready  to  sacrifice  thyself  in  the  cause  of  worthless 
man!" 

I  tried  to  whistle  off  the  recollection  of  her;  for  there  was 
always  something  of  self-reproach  with  it.  I  drove  gayly  along 
the  road,  enjoying  the  stare  of  hostlers  and  stable-boys  as  I 
managed  my  horses  knowingly  down  the  steep  street  of  Hemp- 
stead  ;  when,  just  at  the  skirts  of  the  village,  one  of  the  traces 
of  my  leader  came  loose.  I  pulled  up ;  and  as  the  animal  was 
restive  and  my  servant  a  bungler,  I  called  for  assistance  to  the 
robustious  master  of  a  snug  ale-house,  who  stood  at  his  door 
with  a  tankard  in  his  hand.  He  came  readily  to  assist  me, 
followed  by  his  wife,  with  her  bosom  half  open,  a  child  in  her 
arms,  and  two  more  at  her  heels.  I  stared  for  a  moment  as  if 
doubting  my  eyes.  I  could  not  be  mistaken ;  in  the  fat,  beer- 
blown  landlord  of  the  ale-house  I  recognized  my  old  rival  Har 
lequin,  and  in  his  slattern  spouse,  the  once  trim  and  dimpling 
Columbine. 

The  change  of  my  looks,  from  youth  to  manhood,  and  the 
change  of  my  circumstances,  prevented  them  from  recognizing 
me.  They  could  not  suspect,  in  the  dashing  young  buck,  fash 
ionably  dressed,  and  driving  his  own  equipage,  their  former 
comrade,  the  painted  beau,  with  old  peaked  hat  and  long, 
flimsy,  sky-blue  coat.  My  heart  yearned  with  kindness  to 
wards  Columbine,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  her  establishment  a 
thriving  one.  As  soon  as  the  harness  was  adjusted,  I  tossed 
a  small  purse  of  gold  into  her  ample  bosom;  and  then,  pre 
tending  give  my  horses  a  hearty  cut  of  the  whip,  I  made  the 
lash  curl  with  a  whistling  about  the  sleek  sides  of  ancient 
Harlequin-  The  horses  dashed  off  like  lightning,  and  I  waa 


126  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

whirled  out  of  sight,  before  either  of  the  parties  could  get  ove* 
their  surprise  at  my  liberal  donations.  I  have  always  consid> 
ered  this  as  one  of  the  greatest  proofs  of  my  poetical  genius. 
It  was  distributing  poetical  justice  in  perfection. 

I  now  entered  London  en  cavalier,  and  became  a  blood  upon 
town.  I  took  fashionable  lodgings  in  the  West  End ;  employed 
the  first  tailor ;  frequented  the  regular  lounges ;  gambled  a  lit 
tle  ;  lost  my  money  good-hunioredly,  and  gained  a  number  of 
fashionable  good-for-nothing  acquaintances.  Had  I  had  more 
industry  and  ambition  in  my  nature,  I  might  have  worked  my 
way  to  the  very  height  of  fashion,  as  I  saw  many  laborious 
gentlemen  doing  around  me.  But  it  is  a  toilsome,  an  anxious, 
and  an  unhappy  life;  there  are  few  beings  so  sleepless  and 
miserable  as  your  cultivators  of  fashionable  smiles. 

I  was  quite  content  with  that  kind  of  society  which  forms  the 
frontiers  of  fashion,  and  may  be  easily  taken  possession  of.  I 
found  it  a  light,  easy,  productive  soil.  I  had  but  to  go  about 
and  sow  visiting  cards,  and  I  reaped  a  whole  harvest  of  invita 
tions.  Indeed,  my  figure  and  address  were  by  no  means  against 
me.  It  was  whispered,  too,  among  the  young  ladies,  that  I 
was  prodigiously  clever,  and  wrote  poetry ;  and  the  old  ladies 
had  ascertained  that  I  was  a  young  gentleman  of  good  family, 
handsome  fortune,  and  "great  expectations." 

I  now  was  carried  away  by  the  hurry  of  gay  life,  so  intoxi 
cating  to  a  young  man ;  and  which  a  man  of  poetical  tempera 
ment  enjoys  so  highly  on  his  first  tasting  of  it.  That  rapid 
variety  of  sensations ;  that  whirl  of  brilliant  objects ;  that  suc 
cession  of  pungent  pleasures.  I  had  no  time  for  thought ;  I  only 
felt.  I  never  attempted  to  write  poetry ;  my  poetry  seemed  all 
to  go  off  by  transpiration.  I  lived  poetry ;  it  was  all  a  poetical 
dream  to  me.  A  mere  sensualist  knows  nothing  of  the  delights 
of  a  splendid  metropolis.  He  lives  in  a  round  of  animal  grati 
fications  and  heartless  habits.  But  to  a  young  man  of  poetical 
teehjigs  it  is  an  ideal  world ;  a  scene  of  enchantment  and  de- 
lusicto ;  his  imagination  is  in  perpetual  excitement,  and  gives  a 
spiritual  zest  to  every  pleasure. 

A  season  of  town  life  somewhat  sobered  me  of  my  intoxica 
tion  ;  or  rather  I  was  rendered  more  serious  by  one  of  my  old 
complaints — I  fell  in  love.  It  was  with  a  very  pretty,  though 
a  very  haughty  fair  one,  who  had  come  to  London  under  the 
care  of  an  old  maiden  aunt,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  a  winter 
in  town,  and  to  get  married.  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  her 
commanding  a  choice  of  lovers ;  for  she  had  long  been  the  belle 


THE   YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     127 

of  a  little  cathedral  town ;  and  one  of  the  prebendaries  had  ab 
solutely  celebrated  her  beauty  in  a  copy  of  Latin  verses. 

I  paid  my  court  to  her,  and  was  favorably  received  both  by 
her  and  her  aunt.  Nay,  I  had  a  marked  preference  shown  me 
over  the  younger  son  of  a  needy  baronet,  and  a  captain  of  dra 
goons  on  half  pay.  I  did  not  absolutely  take  the  field  in  form, 
for  I  was  determined  not  to  be  pecipitate;  but  I  drove  my 
equipage  frequently  through  the  street  in  which  she  lived,  and 
was  always  sure  to  see  her  at  the  window,  generally  with  a 
book  in  her  hand.  I  resumed  my  knack  at  rhyming,  and 
sent  her  a  long  copy  of  versos ;  anonymously  to  be  sure ;  but 
she  knew  my  handwriting.  They  displayed,  however,  the 
most  delightful  ignorance  on  the  subject.  The  young  lady 
showed  them  to  me ;  wondered  who  they  could  be  written  by ; 
and  declared  there  was  nothing  in  this  world  she  loved  so 
much  as  poetry :  while  the  maiden  aunt  would  put  her  pinch 
ing  spectacles  on  her  nose,  and  read  them,  with  blunders  in 
(sense  and  sound,  that  were  excruciating  to  an  author's  ears; 
protesting  there  was  nothing  equal  to  them  in  the  whole  elegant 
extracts. 

The  fashionable  season  closed  without  my  adventuring  to 
make  a  declaration,  though  I  certainly  had  encouragement.  I 
was  not  perfectly  sure  that  I  had  effected  a  lodgment  in  tne 
young  lady's  heart ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  aunt  overdid  her 
part,  and  was  a  little  too  extravagant  in  her  liking  of  me.  I 
knew  that  maiden  aunts  were  not  apt  to  be  captivated  by  the 
mere  personal  merits  of  their  nieces'  admirers,  and  I  wanted  to 
ascertain  how  much  of  all  this  favor  I  owed  to  my  driving  an 
equipage  and  having  great  expectations. 

I  had  received  many  hints  how  charming  their  native  town 
was  during  the  summer  months;  what  pleasant  society  they 
had ;  and  what  beautiful  drives  about  the  neighborhood.  They 
had  not,  therefore,  returned  home  long,  before  I  made  my 
appearance  in  dashing  style,  driving  down  the  principal  street. 
It  is  an  easy  thing  to  put  a  little  quiet  cathedral  town  in  a  buzz. 
The  very  next  morning  I  was  seen  at  prayers,  seated  in  the  pew 
of  the  reigning  belle.  All  the  congregation  was  in  a  flutter. 
The  prebends  eyed  me  from  their  stalls ;  questions  were  whis 
pered  about  the  isles  after  service,  "  who  is  he?"  and  "  what  is 
he?"  and  the  replies  were  as  usual— "A  young  gentleman  of 
good  family  and  fortune,  and  great  expectations." 

I  was  pleased  with  the  peculiarities  of  a  cathedral  town, 
where  I  found  I  was  a  personage  of  some  consequence.  I  was 


128  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

quite  a  brilliant  acquisition  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  catnedrat 
circle,  who  were  glad  to  have  a  beau  that  was  not  in  a  blade 
coat  and  clerical  wig.  You  must  know  that  there  was  a  vast 
distinction  between  the  classes  of  society  of  the  town.  As  it 
was  a  place  of  some  trade,  there  were  many  wealthy  inhabitants 
among  the  commercial  and  manufacturing  classes,  who  lived 
in  style  and  gave  many  entertainments.  Nothing  of  trade, 
however,  was  admitted  into  the  cathedral  circle — faugh!  the 
thing  could  not  be  thought  of.  The  cathedral  circle,  therefore, 
was  apt  to  be  very  select,  very  dignified,  and  very  dull.  They 
had  evening  parties,  at  which  the  old  ladies  played  cards  with 
the  prebends,  and  the  young  ladies  sat  and  looked  on,  and 
shifted  from  one  chair  to  another  about  the  room,  until  it  was 
time  to  go  home. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  up  a  ball,  from  the  want  of  partners,  the 
cathedral  circle  being  very  deficient  in  dancers ;  and  on  those 
occasions,  there  was  an  occasional  drafting  among  the  dancing 
men  of  the  other  circle,  who,  however,  were  generally  regarded 
with  great  reserve  and  condescension  by  the  gentlemen  in 
powdered  wigs.  Several  of  the  young  ladies  assured  me,  in 
confidence,  that  they  had  often  looked  with  a  wistful  eye  at 
the  gayety  of  the  other  circle,  where  there  was  such  plenty  of 
young  beaux,  and  where  they  all  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves 
so  merrily;  but  that  it  would  be  degradation  to  think  of 
descending  from  their  sphere. 

I  admired  the  degree  of  old-fashioned  ceremony  and  super 
annuated  courtesy  that  prevailed  in  this  little  place.  The  bow 
ings  and  courtseyings  that  would  take  place  about  the  cathedral 
porch  after  morning  service,  where  knots  of  old  gentlemen  and 
ladies  would  collect  together  to  ask  after  each  other's  health, 
and  settle  the  card  party  for  the  evening.  The  little  presents 
of  fruits  and  delicacies,  and  the  thousand  petty  messages  that 
would  pass  from  house  to  house ;  for  in  a  tranquil  community 
like  this,  living  entirely  at  ease,  and  having  little  to  do,  little 
duties  and  little  civilities  and  little  amusements,  fill  up  the  Jay. 
I  have  smiled,  as  I  looked  from  my  window  on  a  quiet  street 
near  the  cathedral,  in  the  middle  of  a  warm  summer  day,  to  see 
a  corpulent  powdered  footman  in  rich  livery,  carrying  a  small 
tart  on  a  large  silver  salver.  A  dainty  titbit,  sent,  no  doubt,  by 
some  worthy  old  dowager,  to  top  off  the  dinner  of  her  favorite 
prebend. 

Nothing  could  be  more  delectable,  also,  than  the  breaking  up 
of  one  of  their  evening  card  parties.  Such  shaking  of  hands; 


THE   YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    129 

s<uch  mobbing  up  in  cloaks  and  tippets !  There  were  two  or 
three  old  sedan  chairs  that  did  the  duty  of  the  whole  place; 
though  the  greater  part  made  their  exit  in  clogs  and  pattens, 
with  a  footman  or  waiting-maid  carrying  a  lanthorn  in 
advance;  and  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night  the  clank  of 
pattens  and  the  gleam  of  these  jack  lanthorns,  here  and  there, 
'^oout  the  quiet  little  town,  gave  notice  that  the  cathedral  card 
party  had  dissolved,  and  the  luminaries  were  severally  seeking 
their  homes.  To  such  a  community,  therefore,  or  at  least  to 
the  female  part  of  it,  the  accession  of  a  gay,  dashing  young  beau 
was  a  matter  of  some  importance.  The  old  ladies  eyed  me  with 
complacency  through  their  spectacles,  and  the  young  ladies 
pronounced  me  divine.  Everybody  received  me  favorably, 
excepting  the  gentleman  who  had  written  the  Latin  verses  on 
the  belle. —Not  that  he  was  jealous  of  my  success  with  the 
lady,  for  he  had  no  pretensions  to  her ;  but  he  heard  my  verses 
praised  wherever  he  went,  and  he  could  not  endure  a  rival  with 
the  muse. 

I  was  thus  carrying  every  thing  before  me.  I  was  the  Adonia 
of  the  cathedral  circle ;  when  one  evening  there  was  a  public 
ball  which  was  attended  likewise  by  the  gentry  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  I  took  great  pains  with  my  toilet  on  the  occasion,  and  I 
had  never  looked  better.  I  had  determined  that  night  to  make 
my  grand  assault  on  the  heart  of  the  young  lady,  to  batter  it 
with  all  my  forces,  and  the  next  morning  to  demand  a  sur 
render  hi  due  form. 

I  entered  the  ball-room  amidst  a  buzz  and  flutter,  which 
generally  took  place  among  the  young  ladies  on  my  appearance. 
I  was  in  fine  spirits ;  for  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  exhilarated 
myself  by  a  cheerful  glass  of  wine  on  the  occasion.  I  talked, 
and  rattled,  aud  said  a  thousand  silly  things,  slap-dash,  with 
all  the  confidence  of  a  man  sure  of  his  auditors ;  and  every  thing 
had  its  effect. 

In  the  midst  of  my  triumph  I  observed  a  little  knot  gathering 
together  in  the  upper  part  of  the  room.  By  degrees  it  increased. 
A  tittering  broke  out  there ;  and  glances  were  cast  round  at  me, 
and  then  there  would  be  fresh  tittering.  Some  of  the  young 
ladies  would  hurry  away  to  distant  parts  of  the  room,  and 
whisper  to  their  friends ;  wherever  they  went  there  was  still 
this  tittering  and  glancing  at  me.  I  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  all  this.  I  looked  at  myself  from  head  to  foot ;  and 
peeped  at  my  back  in  a  glass,  to  see  if  any  thing  was  odd 
about  my  person ;  any  awkward  t-xposure ;  any  whimsical  tag 


TALES  OP  A   TEA  TELLER. 

hanging  out— no — every  thing  was  right.  I  was  a  perfect  pio 
ture. 

I  determined  that  it  must  be  some  choice  saying  of  mine,  that 
was  bandied  about  in  this  knot  of  merry  beauties,  and  I  deter 
mined  to  enjoy  one  of  my  good  things  in  the  rebound. 

I  stepped  gently,  therefore,  up  the  room,  smiling  at  every 
one  as  I  passed,  who  I  must  say  all  smiled  and  tittered  in 
return.  I  approached  the  group,  smirking  and  perking  my 
chin,  like  a  man  who  is  full  of  pleasant  feeling,  and  sure  of 
being  well  received.  The  cluster  of  little  belles  opened  as  I 
advanced. 

Heavens  and  earth !  whom  should  I  perceive  in  the  midst  of 
them,  but  my  early  and  tormenting  flame,  the  everlasting 
Sacharissa !  She  was  grown  up,  it  is  true,  into  the  full  beauty 
of  womanhood,  but  showed  by  the  provoking  merriment  of  her 
countenance,  that  she  perfectly  recollected  me,  and  the  ridicu 
lous  flagellations  of  which  she  had  twice  been  the  cause. 

I  saw  at  once  the  exterminating  cloud  of  ridicule  that  was 
bursting  over  me.  My  crest  fell.  The  flame  of  love  went  sud 
denly  out  in  my  bosom ;  or  was  extinguished  by  overwhelm 
ing  shame.  How  I  got  down  the  room  I  know  not ;  I  fancied 
every  one  tittering  at  me.  Just  as  I  reached  the  door,  I  caught 
a  glance  of  my  mistress  and  her  aunt,  listening  to  the  whis 
pers  of  my  poetic  rival ;  the  old  lady  raising  her  hands  and 
eyes,  and  the  face  of  the  young  one  lighted  up  with  scorn 
ineffable.  I  paused  to  see  no  more ;  but  made  two  steps  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom.  The  next  morning,  before 
sunrise,  I  beat  a  retreat ;  and  did  not  feel  the  blushes  cool  from 
my  tingling  cheeks  until  I  had  lost  sight  of  the  old  towers  of 
the  cathedral. 

I  now  returned  to  town  thoughtful  and  crestfallen.  My 
money  was  nearly  spent,  for  I  had  lived  freely  and  without 
calculation.  The  dream  of  love  was  over,  and  the  reign  of 
pleasure  at  an  end.  I  determined  to  retrench  while  I  had  yet 
a  trifle  left ;  so  selling  my  equipage  and  horses  for  half  their 
value,  I  quietly  put  the  money  in  my  pocket  and  turned 
pedestrian.  I  had  not  a  doubt  that,  with  my  great  expecta 
tions,  I  could  at  any  time  raise  funds,  either  on  usury  or  by 
borrowing;  but  I  was  principled  against  both  one  and  the 
other ;  and  resolved,  by  strict  economy,  to  make  my  slender 
purse  hold  out,  until  my  uncle  should  give  up  the  ghost ;  or 
rather,  the  estate. 

I  stayed  at  home,  therefore,  and  read,  and  would  have 


THE   YOUJW   MAA   OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    131 

written ;  but  I  had  already  suffered  too  much  from  my  poeti 
cal  productions,  which  had  generally  involved  me  in  some 
ridiculous  scrape.  I  gradually  acquired  a  rusty  look,  and  had 
a  straightened,  money-borrowing  air,  upon  which  the  world 
hegan  to  shy  me.  I  have  never  felt  disposed  to  quarrel  with 
the  world  for  its  conduct.  It  has  always  used  me  well.  When 
I  have  been  flush,  and  gay,  and  disposed  for  society,  it  has 
caressed  me ;  and  when  I  have  been  pinched,  and  reduced,  and 
wished  to  be  alone,  why,  it  has  left  me  alone,  and  what  more 
could  a  man  desire? — Take  my  word  for  it,  this  world  is  a  more 
obliging  world  than  people  generally  represent  it. 

Well,  sir,  in  the  midst  of  my  retrenchment,  my  retirement, 
and  my  studiousness,  I  received  news  that  my  uncle  was  dan 
gerously  ill.  I  hastened  on  the  wings  of  an  heir's  affection  to 
receive  his  dying  breath  and  his  last  testament.  I  found  him 
attended  by  his  faithful  valet,  old  Iron  John ;  by  the  woman 
who  occasionally  worked  about  the  house ;  and  by  the  foxy- 
headed  boy,  young  Orson,  whom  I  had  occasionally  hunted 
about  the  park. 

Iron  John  gasped  a  kind  of  asthmatical  salutation  as  I 
entered  the  room,  and  received  me  with  something  almost  like 
a  smile  of  welcome.  The  woman  sat  blubbering  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed ;  and  the  foxy -headed  Orson,  who  had  now  grown  to 
be  a  lubberly  lout,  stood  gazing  in  stupid  vacancy  at  a  dis 
tance. 

My  uncle  lay  stretched  upon  his  back.  The  chamber  was 
without  a  fire,  or  any  of  the  comforts  of  a  sick-room.  The 
cobwebs  flaunted  from  the  ceiling.  The  tester  was  covered 
with  dust,  and  the  curtains  were  tattered.  From  underneath 
the  bed  peeped  out  one  end  of  his  strong  box.  Against  the 
wainscot  were  suspended  rusty  blunderbusses,  horse  pistols, 
and  a  cut-and-thrust  sword,  with  which  he  had  fortified  his 
room  to  defend  his  life  and  treasure.  He  had  employed  no 
physician  during  his  illness,  and  from  the  scanty  relics  lying 
on  the  table,  seemed  almost  to  have  denied  himself  the  assis 
tance  of  a  cook. 

When  I  entered  the  room  he  was  lying  motionless ;  with  his 
eyes  fixed  and  his  mouth  open ;  at  the  first  look  I  thought  him 
a  corpse.  The  noise  of  my  entrance  made  him  turn  his  head. 
At  the  sight  of  me  a  ghastly  smile  came  over  his  face,  and  his 
glazing  eye  gleamed  with  satisfaction.  It  was  the  only  smile 
he  had  ever  given  me,  and  it  went  to  my  heart.  "  Poor  old 
man !"  thought  I,  "why  would  you  not  let  me  love  you? — Why 


132  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

would  you  force  me  to  leave  you  thus  desolate,  when  I  see  thai 
my  presence  has  the  power  to  cheer  you?" 

"Nephew,"  said  he,  after  several  efL'crts,  and  in  a  low  gasp 
ing  voice — "I  am  glad  you  are  come.  I  shall  now  die  with 
satisfaction.  Look,"  said  he,  raising  his  withered  hand  and 
pointing— "look— in  that  box  on  the  table  you  will  find  that  I 
have  not  forgotten  you." 

I  pressed  his  hand  to  my  heart,  and  the  tears  stood  in  my 
eyes.  I  sat  down  by  his  bed-side,  and  watched  him,  but  he 
never  spoke  again.  My  presence,  however,  gave  him  evident 
satisfaction — for  every  now  and  then,  as  he  looked  at  me,  a 
vague  smile  would  come  over  his  visage,  and  he  would  feebly 
point  to  the  sealed  box  on  the  table.  As  the  day  wore  away, 
his  life  seemed  to  wear  away  with  it.  Towards  sunset,  his 
hand  sunk  on  the  bed  and  lay  motionless;  his  eyes  grew 
glazed ;  his  mouth  remained  open,  and  thus  he  gradually  died. 

I  could  not  but  feel  shocked  at  this  absolute  extinction  of  my 
kindred.  I  dropped  a  tear  of  real  sorrow  over  this  strange  old 
man,  who  had  thus  reserved  his  smile  of  kindness  to  his  death 
bed  ;  like  an  evening  sun  after  a  gloomy  day,  just  shining  out 
to  set  in  darkness.  Leaving  the  corpse  in  charge  of  the  domes 
tics,  I  retired  for  the  night. 

It  was  a  rough  night.  The  winds  seemed  as  if  singing  my 
uncle's  requiem  about  the  mansion;  and  the  bloodhounds 
howled  without  as  if  they  knew  of  the  death  of  their  old  mas 
ter.  Iron  John  almost  grudged  me  the  tallow  candle  to  burn 
in  my  apartment  and  light  up  its  dreariness;  so  accustomed 
had  he  been  to  starveling  economy.  I  could  not  sleep.  The 
recollection  of  my  uncle's  dying  scene  and  the  dreary  sounds 
about  the  house,  affected  my  mind.  These,  however,  were 
succeeded  by  plans  for  the  future,  and  I  lay  awake  the  greater 
part  of  the  night,  indulging  the  poetical  anticipation,  how  soon 
I  would  make  these  old  walls  ring  with  cheerful  life,  and 
restore  the  hospitality  of  my  mother's  ancestors. 

My  uncle's  funeral  was  decent,  but  private.  I  knew  there 
was  nobody  that  respected  his  memory ;  and  I  was  determined 
that  none  should  be  summoned  to  sneer  over  his  funeral  wines, 
and  make  merry  at  his  grave.  He  was  buried  in  the  church  of 
the  neighboring  village,  though  it  was  not  the  burying  place 
of  his  race ;  but  he  had  expressly  enjoined  that  he  should  not 
be  buried  with  his  family ;  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  most  of 
them  when  living,  and  he  carried  his  resentments  even  into  the 
grave. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     133 

I  defrayed  the  expenses  of  the  funeral  out  of  my  OV.TI  purse, 
that  I  might  have  done  with  the  undertakers  at  once,  and  clear 
the  ill-omened  birds  from  the  premises.  I  invited  the  parson 
of  the  parish,  and  the  lawyer  from  the  village  to  attend  at  the 
house  the  next  morning  and  hear  the  reading  of  the  will.  I 
treated  them  to  an  excellent  breakfast,  a  profusion  that  had 
not  been  seen  at  the  house  for  many  a  year.  As  soon  as  the 
breakfast  things  were  removed,  I  summoned  Iron  John,  the 
woman,  and  the  boy,  for  I  was  particular  of  having  every  one 
present  and  proceeding  regularly.  The  box  was  placed  on  the 
table.  All  was  silence.  I  broke  the  seal ;  raised  the  lid ;  and 
beheld— not  the  will,  but  my  accursed  poem  of  Doubting  Castle 
and  Giant  Despair ! 

Could  any  mortal  have  conceived  that  this  old  withered  man ; 
so  taciturn,  and  apparently  lost  to  f  eeling,  could  have  treasured 
up  for  years  the  thoughtless  pleasantry  of  a  boy,  to  punish 
him  with  such  cruel  ingenuity?  I  could  now  account  for  his 
dying  smile,  the  only  one  he  had  ever  given  me.  He  had  been 
a  grave  man  all  his  life ;  it  was  strange  that  he  should  die  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a  joke ;  and  it  was  hard  that  that  joke  should 
be  at  my  expense. 

The  lawyer  and  the  parson  seemed  at  a  loss  to  comprehend 
the  matter.  "Here  must  be  some  mistake,"  said  the  lawyer, 
"there  is  no  will  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Iron  John,  creaking  forth  his  rusty  jaws,  "  if  it  is 
a  will  you  are  looking  for,  I  believe  I  can  find  one." 

He  retired  with  the  same  singular  smile  with  which  he  had 
greeted  me  on  my  arrival,  and  which  I  now  apprehended  boded 
me  no  good.  In  a  little  while  he  returned  with  a  will  perfect 
at  all  points,  properly  signed  and  sealed  and  witnessed ;  worded 
with  horrible  correctness;  in  which  he  left  large  legacies  to 
Iron  John  and  his  daughter,  and  the  residue  of  his  fortune  to 
the  f oxy-haaded  boy ;  who,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  was  his 
son  by  this  very  woman ;  he  having  married  her  privately; 
and,  as  I  verily  believe,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  have  an 
heir,  and  so  baulk  my  father  and  his  issue  of  the  inheritance. 
There  was  one  little  proviso,  in  which  he  mentioned  that  hav 
ing  discovered  his  nephew  to  have  a  pretty  turn  for  poetry,  he 
presumed  he  had  no  occasion  for  wealth ;  he  recommended  him, 
however,  to  the  patronage  of  his  heir ;  and  requested  that  he 
might  have  a  garret,  rent  free,  in  Doubting  Castle. 


134  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 


GRAVE  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  DISAPPOINTED  MAN. 

MR.  BUCKTHORNE  had  paused  at  the  death  of  his  uncle,  and 
the  downfall  of  his  great  expectations,  which  formed,  as  he 
said,  an  epoch  in  his  history ;  and  it  was  not  until  some  little 
time  afterwards,  and  in  a  very  sober  mood,  that  he  resumed 
his  particolored  narrative. 

After  leaving  the  domains  of  my  defunct  uncle,  said  he,  when 
the  gate  closed  between  me  and  what  was  once  to  have  been 
mine,  I  felt  thrust  out  naked  into  the  world,  and  completely 
abandoned  to  fortune.  What  was  to  become  of  me?  I  had 
been  brought  up  to  nothing  but  expectations,  and  they  had  all 
been  disappointed.  I  had  no  relations  to  look  to  for  counsel 
or  assistance.  The  world  seemed  all  to  have  died  away  from 
me.  Wave  after  wave  of  relationship  had  ebbed  off,  and  I  was 
left  a  mere  hulk  upon  the  strand.  I  am  not  apt  to  be  greatly 
cast  down,  but  at  this  time  I  felt  sadly  disheartened.  I  could 
not  realize  my  situation,  nor  form  a  conjecture  how  I  was  to 
get  forward. 

I  was  now  to  endeavor  to  make  money.  The  idea  was  new 
and  strange  to  me.  It  was  like  being  asked  to  discover  the 
philosopher's  stone.  I  had  never  thought  about  money,  other 
than  to  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and  find  it,  or  if  there 
were  none  there,  to  wait  until  a  new  supply  came  from  home. 
I  had  considered  life  as  a  mere  space  of  time  to  be  filled  up  with 
enjoyments;  but  to  have  it  portioned  out  into  long  hours  and 
days  of  toil,  merely  that  I  might  gain  bread  to  give  me  strength 
to  toil  on;  to  labor  but  for  the  purpose  of  perpetuating  a  life  of 
labor  was  new  and  appaling  to  me.  This  may  appear  a  very 
simple  matter  to  some,  but  it  will  be  understood  by  eveiy 
unlucky  wight  in  my  predicament,  who  has  had  the  misfortune 
of  being  born  to  great  expectations. 

I  passed  several  days  in  rambling  about  the  scenes  of  my  boy 
hood  ;  partly  because  I  absolutely  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
myself,  and  partly  because  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  ever 
see  them  again.  I  clung  to  them  as  one  clings  to  a  wreck, 
though  he  knows  he  must  eventually  cast  himself  loose  and 
swim  for  his  life.  I  sat  down  on  a  hill  within  sight  of  my 
paternal  home,  but  I  did  not  venture  to  approach  it,  for  I  felt 
compunction  at  the  thoughtlessness  with  which  I  had  dissip 
ated  my  patrimony.  But  was  I  to  blame,  when  I  had  the  rich 
possessions  of  my  curmudgeon  of  an  uncle  in  expectation? 


GRAVE  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  DISAPPOINTED  MAN.    135 

The  new  possessor  of  the  place  was  making  great  alterations. 
The  house  was  almost  rebuilt.  The  trees  which  stood  about  it 
were  cut  down ;  my  mother's  flower-garden  was  thrown  into  a 
lawn ;  all  was  undergoing  a  change.  I  turned  my  back  upon 
it  with  a  sigh,  and  rambled  to  another  part  of  the  country. 

How  thoughtful  a  little  adversity  makes  one.  As  I  came  in 
sight  of  the  school-house  where  I  had  so  often  been  flogged  in 
the  cause  of  wisdom,  you  would  hardly  have  recognized  the 
truant  boy  who  but  a  few  years  since  had  eloped  so  heedlessly 
from  its  walls.  I  leaned  over  the  paling  of  the  playground, 
and  watched  the  scholars  at  their  games,  and  looked  to  see  if 
there  might  not  be  some  urchin  among  them,  like  I  was  once, 
full  of  gay  dreams  about  life  and  the  world.  The  play-ground 
seemed  smaller  than  when  I  used  to  sport  about  it.  The  house 
and  park,  too,  of  the  neighboring  squire,  the  father  of  the  cruel 
Sacharissa,  had  shrunk  in  size  and  diminished  in  magnificence. 
The  distant  hills  no  longer  appeared  so  far  off,  and,  alas !  no 
longer  awakened  ideas  of  a  fairy  land  beyond. 

As  I  was  rambling  pensively  through  a  neighboring  meadow, 
in  which  I  had  many  a  time  gathered  primroses,  I  met  the  very 
pedagogue  who  had  been  the  tyrant  and  dread  of  my  boyhood. 
I  had  sometimes  vowed  to  myself,  when  suffering  under  his  rod, 
that  I  would  have  my  revenge  if  ever  I  met  him  when  I  had 
grown  to  be  a  man.  The  time  had  come ;  but  I  had  no  disposition 
to  keep  my  vow.  The  few  years  which  had  matured  me  into  a 
a  vigorous  man  had  shrunk  him  into  decrepitude.  He  appeared 
to  have  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  I  looked  at  him,  and  wondered 
that  this  poor  helpless  mortal  could  have  been  an  object  of 
terror  to  me !  That  I  should  have  watched  with  anxiety  the 
glance  of  that  failing  eye,  or  dreaded  the  power  of  that  tremb 
ling  hand !  He  tottered  feebly  along  the  path,  and  had  some 
difficulty  in  getting  over  a  stile.  I  ran  and  assisted  him.  He 
looked  at  me  with  surprise,  but  did  not  recognize  me,  and  made 
a  low  bow  of  humility  and  thanks.  I  had  no  disposition  to 
make  myself  known,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  nothing  to  boast  of. 
The  pains  he  had  taken  and  the  pains  he  had  inflicted  had  been 
equally  useless.  His  repeated  predictions  were  fully  verified, 
and  I  felt  that  little  Jack  Buckthorne,  the  idle  boy,  had  grown 
up  to  be  a  very  good-for-nothing  man. 

This  is  all  very  comfortless  detail ;  but  as  I  have  told  you  of 
my  follies,  it  is  meet  that  I  show  you  how  for  once  I  was 
schooled  for  them. 

The  most  thoughtless  of  mortals  will  some  time  or  other  have 


136  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

this  day  of  gloom,  when  he  will  be  compelled  to  reflect.  I  felt 
on  this  occasion  as  if  I  had  a  kind  of  penance  to  perform,  and  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  in  expiation  of  my  past  levity. 

Having  passed  a  night  at  Leamington,  I  set  off  by  a  private 
path  which  leads  up  a  hill,  through  a  grove,  and  across  quiet 
fields,  until  I  came  to  the  small  village,  or  rather  hamlet  of 
Lenington.  I  sought  the  village  church.  It  is  an  old  low  edi 
fice  of  gray  stone  on  the  brow  of  a  small  hill,  looking  over  fer 
tile  fields  to  where  the  proud  towers  of  Warwick  Castle  lifted 
themselves  against  the  distant  horizon.  A  part  of  the  church 
yard  is  shaded  by  large  trees.  Under  one  of  these  my  mother 
lay  buried.  You  have,  no  doubt,  thought  me  a  light,  heartless 
being.  I  thought  myself  so  —  but  there  are  moments  of 
adversity  which  let  us  into  some  feelings  of  our  nature,  to 
which  we  might  otherwise  remain  perpetual  strangers. 

I  sought  my  mother's  grave.  The  weeds  were  already  matted 
over  it,  and  the  tombstone  was  half  hid  among  nettles.  I 
cleared  them  away  and  they  stung  my  hands ;  but  I  was  heed 
less  of  the  pain,  for  my  heart  ached  too  severely.  I  sat  down 
on  the  grave,  and  read  over  and  over  again  the  epitaph  on  the 
stone.  It  was  simple,  but  it  was  true.  I  had  written  it  myself. 
I  had  tried  to  write  a  poetical  epitaph,  but  in  vain ;  my  f  eelings 
refused  to  utter  themselves  in  rhyme.  My  heart  had  grad 
ually  been  filling  during  my  lonely  wanderings ;  it  was  now 
charged  to  the  brim  and  overflowed.  I  sank  upon  the  grave 
and  buried  my  face  in  the  tall  grass  and  wept  like  a  child. 
Yes,  I  wept  in  manhood  upon  the  grave,  as  I  had  in  infancy 
upon  the  bosom  of  my  mother.  Alas !  how  little  do  we  appre 
ciate  a  mother's  tenderness  while  living !  How  heedless  are  we 
in  youth,  of  all  her  anxieties  and  kindness.  But  when  she  is 
dead  and  gone ;  when  the  cares  and  coldness  of  the  world  come 
withering  to  our  hearts ;  when  we  find  how  hard  it  is  to  find 
true  sympathy,  how  few  love  us  for  ourselves,  how  few  will 
befriend  us  in  our  misfortunes ;  then  it  is  we  think  of  the  moth 
er  we  have  lost.  It  is  true  I  had  always  loved  my  mother, 
even  in  my  most  heedless  days ;  but  I  felt  how  inconsiderate 
and  ineffectual  had  been  my  love.  My  heart  melted  as  I  retraced 
the  days  of  infancy,  when  I  was  led  by  a  mother's  hand  and 
rocked  to  sleep  in  a  mother's  arms,  and  was  without  care  or 
sorrow.  "Oh,  my  mother!"  exclaimed  I,  burying  my  face 
again  in  the  grass  of  the  grave — "  Oh,  that  I  were  once  more 
by  your  side;  sleeping,  never  to  wake  again,  on  the  cares  and 
troubles  of  this  world  1" 


GRAVE  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  DISAPPOINTED  MAN.    137 

I  am  not  naturally  of  a  morbid  temperament,  and  the  vio 
lence  of  my  emotion  gradually  exhausted  itself.  It  was  a 
hearty,  honest,  natural  discharge  of  griefs  which  had  been 
slowly  accumulating,  and  gave  me  wonderful  relief.  I  rose 
from  the  grave  as  if  I  had  been  offering  up  a  sacrifice,  and  I 
felt  as  if  that  sacrifice  had  been  accepted. 

I  sat  down  again  on  the  grass,  and  plucked,  one  by  one,  the 
weeds  from  her  grave ;  the  tears  trickled  more  slowly  down  my 
cheeks,  and  ceased  to  be  bitter.  It  was  a  comfort  to  think  that 
she  had  died  before  sorrow  and  poverty  came  upon  her  child, 
and  that  all  his  great  expectations  were  blasted. 

I  leaned  my  cheek  upon  my  hand  and  looked  upon  the  land 
scape.  Its  quiet  beauty  soothed  me.  The  whistle  of  a  peasant 
from  an  adjoining  field  came  cheerily  to  my  ear.  I  seemed  to 
respire  hope  and  comfort  with  the  free  air  that  whispered 
through  the  leaves  and  played  lightly  with  my  hair,  and  dried 
the  tears  upon  my  cheek.  A  lark,  rising  from  the  field  before 
me,  and  leaving,  as  it  were,  a  stream  of  song  behind  him  as  he 
rose,  lifted  my  fancy  with  him.  He  hovered  in  the  air  just 
above  the  place  where  the  towers  of  Warwick  Castle  marked 
the  horizon ;  and  seemed  as  if  fluttering  with  delight  at  his  own 
melody.  "  Surely,"  thought  I,  "  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as 
transmigration  of  souls,  this  might  be  taken  for  some  poet,  let 
loose  from  earth,  but  still  revelling  in  song,  and  carolling  about 
fair  fields  and  lordly  towns." 

At  this  moment  the  long  forgotten  feeling  of  poetry  rose 
within  me.  A  thought  sprung  at  once  into  my  mind:  "  I  will 
become  an  author, "  said  I.  "I  have  hitherto  indulged  in  poetry 
as  a  pleasure,  and  it  has  brought  me  nothing  but  pain.  Let  me 
try  what  it  will  do,  when  I  cultivate  it  with  devotion  as  a 
pursuit." 

The  resolution,  thus  suddenly  aroused  within  me,  heaved  a 
load  from  off  my  heart.  I  felt  a  confidence  in  it  from  the  very 
place  where  it  was  formed.  It  seemed  as  though  my  mother's 
spirit  whispered  it  to  me  from  her  grave.  "  I  will  henceforth," 
said  I,  ' '  endeavor  to  be  all  that  she  fondly  imagined  me.  I  will 
endeavor  to  act  as  if  she  were  witness  of  my  actions.  I  will 
endeavor  to  acquit  myself  in  such  manner,  that  when  I  revisit 
her  grave  there  may,  at  least,  be  no  compunctious  bitterness  in 
my  tears. r 

I  bowed  down  and  kissed  the  turf  in  solemn  attestation  of 
my  vow.  I  plucked  some  primroses  that  were  growing  there 
and  laid  them  next  my  heart.  I  left  the  church-yard  with  my 


138  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLED. 

spirits  once  more  lifted  up,  and  set  out  a  third  time  for  London, 
in  the  character  of  an  author. 

Here  my  companion  made  a  pause,  and  I  waited  in  anxious 
suspense ;  hoping  to  have  a  whole  volume  of  literary  lii'e  unfold 
ed  to  me.  He  seemed,  however,  to  have  sunk  into  a  fit  of  pen 
sive  musing ;  and  Avhen  after  some  time  I  gently  roused  him 
by  a  question  or  two  as  to  his  literary  career.  "  No,"  said  he 
smiling,  "over  that  part  of  my  story  I  wish  to  leave  a  cloud. 
Let  the  mysteries  of  the  craft  rest  sacred  for  me.  Let  those 
who  have  never  adventured  into  the  republic  of  letters,  still 
look  upon  it  as  a  fairy  land.  Let  them  suppose  the  author  the 
very  being  they  picture  him  from  his  works ;  I  am  not  the  man 
to  mar  their  illusion.  I  am  not  the  man  to  hint,  while  one  is 
admiring  the  silken  web  of  Persia,  that  it  has  been  spun  from 
the  entrails  of  a  miserable  worm  " 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  tell  me  nothing  of  your  literary 
history,  let  me  know  at  least  if  you  have  had  any  farther  intel 
ligence  from  Doubting  Castle." 

"Willingly,"  replied  he,  "though  I  have  but  little  to  com 
municate." 


THE  BOOBY  SQUIRE. 

A  LONG  time  elapsed,  said  Biickthorne,  without  my  receiving 
any  accounts  of  my  cousin  and  his  estate.  Indeed,  I  felt  so 
much  soreness  on  the  subject,  that  I  wished,  if  possible,  to  shut 
it  from  my  thoughts.  At  length  chance  took  me  into  that  part 
of  the  country,  and  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  some 
inquiries. 

I  learnt  that  my  cousin  had  grown  up  ignorant,  self-willed, 
and  clownish.  His  ignorance  and  clownishness  had  prevented 
his  mingling  with  the  neighboring  gentry.  In  spite  of  his  great 
fortune  he  had  been  unsuccessful  in  an  attempt  to  gain  the 
hand  of  the  daughter  of  the  parson,  and  had  at  length  shrunk 
into  the  limits  of  such  society  as  a  mere  man  of  wealth  can 
gather  in  a  country  neighborhood. 

He  kept  horses  and  hounds  and  a  roaring  table,  at  which 
were  collected  the  loose  livers  of  the  country  round,  and  the 
shabby  gentlemen  of  a  village  in  the  vicinity.  When  he  could 
get  no  other  company  he  would  smoke  and  drink  with  his  own 


THE  BOOBY  SQUIRE.  139 

servants,  who  in  their  turns  fleeced  and  despised  him.  Still, 
with  all  this  apparent  prodigality,  he  had  a  leaven  of  the  old 
man  in  him,  which  showed  that  he  was  his  true-born  son.  He 
He  lived  far  within  his  income,  was  vulgar  in  his  expenses,  and 
penurious  on  many  points  on  which  a  gentleman  would  be 
extravagant.  His  house  servants  were  obliged  occasionally  to 
work  on  the  estate,  and  part  of  the  pleasure  grounds  were 
ploughed  up  and  devoted  to  husbandry. 

His  table,  though  plentiful,  was  coarse;  his  liquors  strong 
and  bad ;  and  more  ale  and  whiskey  were  expended  in  his  es 
tablishment  than  generous  wine.  He  was  loud  and  arrogant 
at  his  own  table,  and  exacted  a  rich  man's  homage  from  his 
vulgar  and  obsequious  guests. 

As  to  Iron  John,  his  old  grandfather,  he  had  grown  impatient 
of  the  tight  hand  his  own  grandson  kept  over  him,  and  quar 
relled  with  him  soon  after  he  came  to  the  estate.  The  old  man 
had  retired  to  a  neighboring  village  where  he  lived  on  the  leg 
acy  of  his  late  master,  in  a  small  cottage,  and  was  as  seldom 
eeen  out  of  it  as  a  rat  out  of  his  hole  in  daylight. 

The  cub,  like  Caliban,  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  attach 
ment  to  his  mother.  She  resided  with  him;  but,  from  long 
habit,  she  acted  more  as  servant  than  as  mistress  of  the  mansion ; 
for  she  toiled  in  all  the  domestic  drudgery,  and  was  oftener 
in  the  kitchen  than  the  parlor.  Such  was  the  information 
which  I  collected  of  my  rival  cousin,  who  had  so  unexpectedly 
elbowed  me  out  of  all  my  expectations. 

I  now  felt  an  irresistible  hankering  to  pay  a  visit  to  this 
scene  of  my  boyhood ;  and  to  get  a  peep  at  the  odd  kind  of  lif e 
that  was  passing  within  the  mansion  of  my  maternal  ancestors. 
I  determined  to  do  so  in  disguise.  My  booby  cousin  had  never 
seen  enough  of  me  to  be  very  familiar  with  my  countenance, 
and  a  few  years  make  great  difference  between  youth  and  man 
hood.  I  understood  he  was  a  breeder  of  cattle  and  proud  of  his 
stock.  I  dressed  myself,  therefore,  as  a  substantial  farmer, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  a  red  scratch  that  came  low  down  on 
my  forehead,  made  a  complete  change  in  my  physiognomy. 

It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  I  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the 
park,  and  was  admitted  by  an  old  woman,  who  was  washing  in 
a  dilapidated  building  which  had  once  been  a  porter's  lodge. 
I  advanced  up  the  remains  of  a  noble  avenue,  many  of  the  trees 
of  which  had  been  cut  down  and  sold  for  timber.  The  grounds 
were  in  scarcely  better  keeping  than  during  my  uncle's  lif  etime. 
The  grass  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  the  trees  wanted 


140  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

pruning  and  clearing  of  dead  branches.  Cattle  were  grazing 
about  the  lawns,  and  ducks  and  geese  swimming  in  the  fish 
ponds. 

The  road  to  the  house  bore  very  few  traces  of  carriage 
wheels,  as  my  cousin  received  few  visitors  but  such  as  came  on 
foot  or  on  horseback,  and  never  used  a  carriage  himself.  Once, 
indeed,  as  I  was  told,  he  had  had  the  old  family  carriage 
drawn  out  from  among  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  the  coach 
house  and  furbished  up,  and  had  drove,  with  his  mother,  to 
the  village  church  to  take  formal  possession  of  the  family 
pew ;  but  there  was  such  hooting  and  laughing  after  them  as 
they  passed  through  the  village,  and  such  giggling  and  banter 
ing  about  the  church  door,  that  the  pageant  had  never  made  a 
reappearance. 

As  I  approached  the  house,  a  legion  of  whelps  sallied  out 
barking  at  me,  accompanied  by  the  low  howling,  rather  than 
barking,  of  two  old  worn-out  bloodhounds,  which  I  recognized 
for  the  ancient  life-guards  of  my  uncle.  The  house  had  still  a 
neglected,  random  appearance,  though  much  altered  for  the 
better  since  my  last  visit.  Several  of  the  windows  were  broken 
and  patched  up  with  boards ;  and  others  had  been  bricked  up 
to  save  taxes.  I  observed  smoke,  however,  rising  from  the 
chimneys ;  a  phenomenon  rarely  witnessed  in  the  ancient  es 
tablishment.  On  passing  that  part  of  the  house  where  the 
dining-room  was  situated,  I  heard  the  sound  of  boisterous 
merriment ;  where  three  or  four  voices  were  talking  at  once, 
and  oaths  and  laughter  were  horribly  mingled. 

The  uproar  of  the  dogs  had  brought  a  servant  to  the  door,  a 
tall,  hard-fisted  country  clown,  with  a  livery  coat  put  over  the 
under-garments  of  a  ploughman.  I  requested  to  see  the  master 
of  the  house,  but  was  told  he  was  at  dinner  with  some  ' '  gem- 
men"  of  the  neighborhood.  I  made  known  my  business  and 
sent  in  to  know  if  I  might  talk  with  the  master  about  his 
cattle ;  for  I  felt  a  great  desire  to  have  a  peep  at  him  at  his 
oi'gies.  Word  was  returned  that  he  was  engaged  with  com 
pany,  and  could  not  attend  to  business,  but  that  if  I  would 
"step  in  and  take  a  drink  of  something,  I  was  heartily  wel 
come."  I  accordingly  entered  the  hall,  where  whips  and  hats 
of  all  kinds  and  shapes  were  lying  on  an  oaken  table,  two  or 
three  clownish  servants  were  lounging  about ;  everything  had 
a  look  of  confusion  and  carelessness. 

The  apartments  through  which  I  passed  had  the  same  air  of 
departed  gentility  and  sluttish  housekeeping.  The  once  rich 


I  HE  BOOBY  SQUIRE.  141 

curtains  -were  faded  and  dusty ;  the  fdrniture  greased  and  tar 
nished.  On  entering  the  dining-room  I  found  a  number  of  odd, 
vulgar-looking,  rustic  gentlemen  seated  round  a  table,  on 
which  were  bottles,  decanters,  tankards,  pipes,  and  tobacco. 
Several  dogs  were  lying  about  the  room,  or  sitting  and  watch 
ing  their  masters,  and  one  was  gnawing  a  bone  under  a  side- 
table. 

The  master  of  the  feast  sat  at  the  head  of  the  board.  He  was 
greatly  altered.  He  had  grown  thick-set  and  rather  gummy, 
with  a  fiery,  foxy  head  of  hair.  There  was  a  singular  mixture  of 
foolishness,  arrogance,  and  conceit  in  his  countenance.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  vulgarly  fine  style,  with  leather  breeches,  a 
red  waistcoat,  and  green  coat,  and  was  evidently,  like  his 
guests,  a  little  flushed  with  drinking.  The  whole  company 
stared  at  me  with  a  whimsical  muggy  look,  like  men  whose 
senses  were  a  little  obfuscated  by  beer  rather  than  wine. 

My  cousin,  (God  forgive  mel  the  appellation  sticks  in  my 
throat,)  my  cousin  invited  me  with  awkward  civility,  or,  as 
he  intended  it,  condescension,  to  sit  to  the  table  and  drink. 
We  talked,  as  usual,  about  the  weather,  the  crops,  politics,  and 
hard  times.  My  cousin  was  a  loud  politician,  and  evidently 
accustomed  to  talk  without  contradiction  at  his  own  table.  He 
was  amazingly  loyal,  and  talked  of  standing  by  the  throne  to 
the  last  guinea,  "as  every  gentleman  of  fortune  should  do." 
The  village  exciseman,  who  was  half  asleep,  could  just  ejacu 
late,  "very  time,"  to  every  thing  he  said. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  cattle ;  he  boasted  of  his  breed, 
his  mode  of  managing  it,  and  of  the  general  management  of 
his  estate.  This  unluckily  drew  on  a  history  of  the  place  and 
of  the  family.  He  spoke  of  my  late  uncle  with  the  greatest 
irreverence,  which  I  could  easily  forgive.  He  mentioned  my 
name,  and  my  blood  began  to  boil.  He  described  my  frequent 
visits  to  my  uncle  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  I  found  the  varlet, 
even  at  that  time,  imp  as  he  was,  had  known  that  he  was  to 
inherit  the  estate. 

He  described  the  scene  of  my  uncle's  death,  and  the  opening 
of  the  will,  with  a  degree  of  coarse  humor  that  I  had  not  expected 
from  him,  and,  vexed  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  joining  in 
the  laugh,  for  I  have  always  relished  a  joke,  even  though  made 
at  my  own  expense.  He  went  on  to  speak  of  my  various  pur 
suits  ;  my  strolling  freak,  and  that  somewhat  nettled  me.  At 
length  he  talked  of  my  parents.  He  ridiculed  my  father:  I 
stomached  even  that,  though  with  great  difficulty.  He  men- 


142  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

tioned  my  mother  with  a  sneer — and  in  an  instant  he  lay 
sprawling  at  my  feet. 

Here  a  scene  of  tumult  succeeded.  The  table  was  nearly 
overturned.  Bottles,  glasses,  and  tankards,  rolled  crashing 
and  clattering  about  the  floor.  The  company  seized  hold  of 
both  of  us  to  keep  us  from  doing  farther  mischief.  I  struggled 
to  get  loose,  for  I  was  boiling  with  fury.  My  cousin  defied  me 
to  strip  and  fight  him  on  the  lawn.  I  agreed ;  for  I  felt  the 
strength  of  a  giant  in  me,  and  I  longed  to  pummel  him  soundly. 

Away  then  we  were  borne.  A  ring  was  formed.  I  had  a 
second  assigned  me  in  true  boxing  style.  My  cousin,  as  he 
advanced  to  fight,  said  something  about  his  generosity  in 
showing  me  such  fair  play,  when  I  had  made  such  an  unpro 
voked  attack  upon  him  at  his  own  table. 

"Stop  there  !"  cried  I,  in  a  rage — "unprovoked ! — know  that 
I  am  John  Buckthorne,  and  you  have  insulted  the  memory  of 
my  mother. " 

The  lout  was  suddenly  scruck  by  wliat  I  said.  He  drew  back 
and  reflected  for  a  moment. 

"Nay,  damn  it,"  said  he,  "  that's  too  much — that's  clear  an 
other  thing.  I've  a  mother  myself,  and  no  one  shall  speak  ill 
of  her,  bad  as  she  is." 

He  paused  again.  Nature  seemed  to  have  a  rough  struggle  in 
his  rude  bosom. 

"Damn  it,  cousin,"  cried  he,  "I'm  sorry  far  what  I  said. 
Thou'st  served  me  right  in  knocking  me  down,  and  I  like  thee 
the  better  for  it.  Here's  my  hand.  Come  and  live  with  me, 
and  damme  but  the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  the  best  horse 
in  the  stable,  shall  be  at  thy  service. " 

I  declare  to  you  I  was  strongly  moved  at  this  instance  of  na 
ture  breaking  her  way  through  such  a  lump  of  flesh.  I  forgave 
the  fellow  in  a  moment  all  his  crimes  of  having  been  born  in 
wedlock  and  inheriting  my  estate.  I  shook  the  hand  he  offered 
me,  to  convince  him  that  I  bore  him  no  ill  will;  and  then 
making  my  way  through  the  gaping  crowd  of  toad-eaters,  bade 
adieu  to  my  uncle's  domains  forever.  This  is  the  last  I  have 
seen  or  heard  of  my  cousin,  or  of  the  domestic  concerns  of 
Doubting  Castle. 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  143 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER. 

As  I  was  walking  one  morning  with  Buckthorne,  near  one  of 
the  principal  theaters,  he  directed  my  attention  to  a  group  of 
those  equivocal  beings  that  may  often  be  seen  hovering  about 
the  stage-doors  of  theaters.  They  were  marvellously  ill- 
favored  in  their  attire,  their  coats  buttoned  up  to  their  chins ; 
yet  they  wore  their  hats  smartly  on  one  side,  and  had  a  certain 
knowing,  dirty-gentlemanlike  air,  which  is  common  to  the 
subalterns  of  the  drama.  Buckthorne  knew  them  well  by 
early  experience. 

These,  said  he,  are  the  ghosts  of  departed  kings  and  heroes ; 
fellows  who  sway  sceptres  and  truncheons ;  command  kingdoms 
and  armies ;  and  after  giving  way  realms  and  treasures  over 
night,  have  scarce  a  shilling  to  pay  for  a  breakfast  in  the  morn 
ing.  Yet  they  have  the  true  vagabond  abhorrence  of  all  useful 
and  industrious  employment ;  and  they  have  their  pleasures 
too :  one  of  which  is  to  lounge  in  this  way  in  the  sunshine,  at 
the  stage-door,  during  rehearsals,  and  make  hackneyed  theatrical 
jokes  on  all  passers-by. 

Nothing  is  more  traditional  and  legitimate  than  the  stage. 
Old  scenery,  old  clothes,  old  sentiments,  old  ranting,  and  old 
jokes,  are  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation;  and 
will  probably  continue  to  be  so,  until  time  shall  be  no  more. 
Every  hanger-on  of  a  theater  becomes  a  wag  by  inheritance, 
and  flourishes  about  at  tap-rooms  and  six-penny  clubs,  with 
the  property  jokes  of  the  green-room. 

While  amusing  ourselves  with  reconnoitring  this  group,  we 
noticed  one  in  particular  who  appeared  to  be  the  oracle.  He 
was  a  weather-beaten  veteran,  a  little  bronzed  by  time  and 
beer,  who  had  no  doubt,  grown  gray  in  the  parts  of  robbers, 
cardinals,  Eoman  senators,  and  walking  noblemen. 

"There's  something  in  the  set  of  that  hat,  and  the  turn  of 
that  physiognomy,  that  is  extremely  familiar  to  me,"  said  Buck 
thorne.  He  looked  a  little  closer.  "I  cannot  be  mistaken," 
added  he,  "that  must  be  my  old  brother  of  the  truncheon, 
Flimsey,  the  tragic  nero  of  the  strolling  company." 

It  was  he  in  fact.  The  poor  fellow  showed  evident  signs  that 
times  went  hard  with  him;  he  was  so  finely  and  shabbily 
dressed.  His  coat  was  somewhat  threadbare,  and  of  the  Lord 
Townly  cut;  single-breasted,  and  scarcely  capable  of  meeting 


144  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

in  front  of  his  body ;  which,  from  long  intimacy,  had  acquired 
the  symmetry  and  robustness  of  a  beer-barrel.  He  wore  a  pair 
of  dingy  white  stockinet  pantaloons,  which  had  much  ado  to 
reach  his  waistcoat ;  a  great  quantity  of  dirty  cravat ;  and  a 
pair  of  old  russet-colored  tragedy  boots. 

When  his  companions  had  dispersed,  Buckthorne  drew  him 
aside  and  made  himself  known  to  him.  The  tragic  veteran 
could  scarcely  recognize  him,  or  believe  that  he  was  really  his 
quondam  associate  "little  gentleman  Jack."  Buckthorne  in 
vited  him  to  a  neighboring  coffee-house  to  talk  over  old  times ; 
and  in  the  course  of  a  little  while  we  were  put  in  possession  of 
his  history  in  brief. 

He  had  continued  to  act  the  heroes  in  the  strolling  company 
for  some  time  after  Buckthorne  had  left  it,  or  rather  had  been 
driven  from  it  so  abruptly.  At  length  the  manager  died,  and  the 
troop  was  thrown  into  confusion.  Every  one  aspired  to  the 
crown ;  every  one  was  for  taking  the  lead ;  and  the  manager's 
widow,  although  a  tragedy  queen,  and  a  brimstone  to  boot, 
pronounced  it  utterly  impossible  to  keep  any  control  over  such 
a  set  of  tempestuous  rascallions. 

Upon  this  hint  I  spoke,  said  Flimsey — I  stepped  forward,  and 
offered  my  services  in  the  most  effectual  way.  They  were  ac 
cepted.  In  a  week's  time  I  married  the  widow  and  succeeded 
to  the  throne.  ' '  The  funeral  baked  meats  did  coldly  furnish 
forth  the  marriage  table, "  as  Hamlet  says.  But  the  ghost  of 
my  predecessor  never  haunted  me;  and  I  inherited  crowns, 
sceptres,  bowls,  daggers,  and  all  the  stage  trappings  and  trum 
pery,  not  omitting  the  widow,  without  the  least  molestation. 

I  now  led  a  flourishing  life  of  it ;  for  our  company  was  pretty 
strong  and  attractive,  and  as  my  wife  and  I  took  the  heavy 
parts  of  tragedy,  it  was  a  great  saving  to  the  treasury.  We 
carried  off  the  palm  from  all  the  rival  shows  at  country  fairs; 
and  I  assure  you  we  have  even  drawn  full  houses,  and  being 
applauded  by  the  critics  at  Bartlemy  fair  itself,  though  we  had 
Astley's  troupe,  the  Irish  giant,  and  "the  death  of  Nelson"  in 
wax-work  to  contend  against. 

I  soon  began  to  experience,  however,  the  cares  of  command. 
I  discovered  that  there  were  cabals  breaking  out  in  the  com 
pany,  headed  by  the  clown,  who  you  may  recollect  was  a  terri 
bly  peevish,  fractious  fellow,  and  always  in  ill-humor.  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  turn  him  off  at  once,  but  I  could  not  do  without 
him,  for  there  was  not  a  droller  scoundrel  on  the  stage.  His 
very  shape  was  comic,  for  he  had  to  turn  his  back  upon  the 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  145 

audience  and  all  the  ladies  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 
He  felt  his  importance,  and  took  advantage  of  it.  He  would 
keep  the  audience  in  a  continual  roar,  and  then  come  behind 
the  scenes  and  fret  and  fume  and  play  the  very  devil.  I  ex 
cused  a  great  deal  in  him,  however,  knowing  that  comic  actors 
are  a  little  prone  to  this  infirmity  of  temper. 

I  had  another  trouble  of  a  nearer  and  dearer  nature  to  strug 
gle  with;  which  was,  the  affection  of  my  wife.  As  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  be  very  fond  of  me, 
and  became  intolerably  jealous.  I  could  not  keep  a  pretty  girl 
in  the  company,  and  hardly  dared  embrace  an  ugly  one,  even 
when  my  part  required  it.  I  have  known  her  to  reduce  a  fine 
lady  to  tatters,  "to  very  rags,"  as  Hamlet  says,  in  an  instant, 
and  destroy  one  of  the  very  best  dresses  in  the  wardrobe; 
merely  because  she  saw  me  kiss  her  at  the  side  scenes ;—  though 
I  give  you  my  honor  it  was  done  merely  by  way  of  rehearsal. 

This  was  doubly  annoying,  because  I  have  a  natural  liking 
to  pretty  faces,  and  wish  to  have  them  about  me ;  and  because 
they  are  indispensable  to  the  success  of  a  company  at  a  fair, 
where  one  has  to  vie  with  so  many  rival  theatres.  But  when 
once  a  jealous  wife  gets  a  freak  in  her  head  there's  no  use  in 
talking  of  interest  or  anything  else.  Egad,  sirs,  I  have  more 
than  once  trembled  when,  during  a  fit  of  her  tantrums,  she  was 
playing  high  tragedy,  and  flourishing  her  tin  dagger  on  the 
stage,  lest  she  should  give  way  to  her  humor,  and  stab  some 
fancied  rival  in  good  earnest. 

I  went  on  better,  however,  than  could  be  expected,  consider 
ing  the  weakness  of  my  flesh  and  the  violence  of  my  rib.  I 
had  not  a  much  worse  time  of  it  than  old  Jupiter,  whose  spouse 
was  continually  ferreting  out  some  new  iixorigue  and  making 
the  heavens  ahnost  too  hot  to  hold  him. 

At  length,  as  luck  would  have  it,  we  were  performing  at  a 
country  fair,  when  I  understood  the  theatre  of  a  neighboring 
town  to  be  vacant.  I  had  always  been  desirous  to  be  enrolled 
in  a  settled  company,  and  the  height  of  my  desire  was  to  get 
on  a  par  with  a  brother-in-law,  who  was  manager  of  a  regular 
theatre,  and  wrho  had  looked  down  upon  me.  Here  was  an 
opportunity  not  to  be  neglected.  I  concluded  an  agreement 
with  the  proprietors,  and  in  a  few  days  opened  the  theatre  with 
great  eclat. 

Behold  me  now  at  the  summit  of  my  ambition,  "the  high 
top-gallant  of  my  joy, "  as  Thomas  says.  No  longer  a  chieftain 
of  a  wandering  tribe,  but  the  monarch  of  a  legitimate  throne— 


146  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

and  entitled  to  call  even  the  great  potentates  of  Covent  Garden 
and  Dnuy  Lane  cousin. 

You  no  doubt  think  nay  happiness  complete.  Alas,  sir !  I 
was  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  dogs  living.  No  one 
knows,  who  has  not  tried,  the  miseries  of  a  manager;  but 
above  all,  of  a  country  management — no  one  can  conceive  the 
contentions  and  quarrels  within  doors,  the  oppressions  and 
vexations  from  without. 

I  was  pestered  with  the  bloods  and  loungers  of  a  country 
town,  who  infested  my  green-room,  and  played  the  mischief 
among  my  actresses.  But  there  was  no  shaking  them  off.  It 
would  have  been  ruin  to  affront  them ;  for,  though  troublesome 
friends,  they  would  have  been  dangerous  enemies.  Then  there 
were  the  village  critics  and  village  amateurs,  who  were  con 
tinually  tormenting  me  with  advice,  and  getting  into  a  passion 
if  I  would  not  take  it : — especially  the  village  doctor  and  the 
village  attorney ;  who  had  both  been  to  London  occasionally, 
and  knew  what  acting  should  be. 

I  had  also  to  manage  as  arrant  a  crew  of  scapegraces  as  were 
ever  collected  together  within  the  walls  of  a  theatre.  I  had 
been  obliged  to  combine  my  original  troupe  with  some  of  the 
former  troupe  of  the  theatre,  who  were  favorites  with  the  pub 
lic.  Here  was  a  mixture  that  produced  perpetual  ferment. 
They  were  all  the  time  either  fighting  or  frolicking  with  each 
other,  and  I  scarcely  knew  which  mood  was  least  troublesome. 
If  they  quarrelled,  everything  went  wrong ;  and  if  they  were 
friends,  they  were  continually  playing  off  some  confounded 
prank  upon  each  other,  or  upon  me;  for  I  had  unhappily 
acquired  among  them  the  character  of  an  easy,  good  natured 
fellow,  the  worst  character  that  a  manager  can  possess. 

Their  waggery  at  times  drove  me  almost  crazy ;  for  there  is 
nothing  so  vexatious  as  the  hackneyed  tricks  and  hoaxes  and 
pleasantries  of  a  veteran  band  of  theatrical  vagabonds.  I 
relished  them  well  enough,  it  is  true,  while  I  was  merely  one 
of  the  company,  but  as  manager  I  found  them  detestable. 
They  were  incessantly  bringing  some  disgrace  upon  the  theatre 
by  their  tavern  forlics,  and  their  pranks  about  the  country 
town.  All  my  lectures  upon  the  importance  of  keeping  up  the 
dignity  of  the  profession,  and  the  respectability  of  the  com 
pany  were  in  vain.  The  villians  could  not  sympathize  with 
the  delicate  feelings  of  a  man  in  station.  They  even  trifled 
with  the  seriousness  of  stage  business.  I  have  had  the  whole 
piece  interrupted,  and  a  croweded  audience  of  at  least  twenty- 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER  147 

five  pounds  kept  waiting,  because  the  actors  had  hid  away  the 
breeches  of  Rosalind,  and  have  known  Hamlet  stalk  solemnly 
on  to  deliver  his  soliloquy,  with  a  dish-clout  pinned  to  his 
skirts.  Such  are  the  baleful  consequences  of  a  manager's  get 
ting  a  character  for  good  nature. 

I  was  intolerably  annoyed,  too,  by  the  great  actors  who 
came  down  starring,  as  it  is  called,  from  London.  Of  all  bane 
ful  influences,  keep  me  from  that  of  a  London  star.  A  first- 
rate  actress  going  the  rounds  of  the  country  theatres,  is  as  bad 
as  a  blazing  comet,  whisking  about  the  heavens,  and  shaking 
fire,  and  plagues,  and  discords  from  its  tail. 

The  moment  one  of  these  "heavenly  bodies"  appeared  on  my 
horizon,  I  was  sure  to  be  in  hot  water.  My  theatre  was  over 
run  by  provincial  dandies,  copper- washed  counterfeits  of  Bond 
street  loungers ;  who  are  always  proud  to  be  in  the  train  of  an 
actress  from  town,  and  anxious  to  be  thought  on  exceeding 
good  terms  with  her.  It  was  really  a  relief  to  me  when  some 
random  young  nobleman  would  come  in  pursuit  of  the  bait,  and 
awe  all  this  small  fry  to  a  distance.  I  have  always  felt  myself 
more  at  ease  with  a  nobleman  than  with  the  dandy  of  a  coun 
try  town. 

And  then  the  injuries  I  suffered  in  my  personal  dignity  and 
my  manageral  authority  from  the  visits  of  these  great  London 
actors.  Sir,  I  was  no  longer  master  of  myself  or  my  throne. 
I  was  hectored  and  lectured  in  my  own  green-room,  and  made 
an  absolute  nincompoop  on  my  own  stage.  There  is  no  tyrant 
so  absolute  and  capricious  as  a  London  star  at  a  country 
theatre. 

I  dreaded  the  sight  of  all  of  them;  and  yet  if  I  did  not 
engage  them,  I  was  sure  of  having  the  public  clamorous  against 
me.  They  drew  full  houses,  and  appeared  to  be  making  my 
fortune ;  but  they  swallowed  up  all  the  profits  by  their  insatia 
ble  demands.  They  were  absolute  tape-worms  to  my  little 
theatre ;  the  more  it  took  in,  the  poorer  it  grew.  They  were 
sure  to  leave  me  with  an  exhausted  public,  empty  benches,  and 
a  score  or  two  of  affronts  to  settle  among  she  townsfolk,  in 
consequence  of  misunderstandings  about  the  taking  of  places. 

But  the  worst  thing  I  had  to  undergo  in  my  managerial 
career  was  patronage.  Oh,  sir,  of  all  things  deliver  me  from 
the  patronage  of  the  great  people  of  a  country  town.  It  was 
my  ruin.  You  must  know  that  this  town,  though  small,  was 
filled  with  feuds,  and  parties,  and  great  folks;  being  a  busy 
little  trading  and  manufacturing  town.  The  mischief  was, 


148  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

that  their  greatness  was  of  a  kind  not  to  be  settled  by  reference 
to  the  court  calendar,  or  college  of  heraldry.  It  was  therefore 
the  most  quarrelsome  kind  of  greatness  in  existence.  You 
smile,  sir,  but  let  me  tell  you  there  are  no  feuds  more  furious 
than  the  frontier  feuds,  which  take  place  on  these  ' '  debatable 
lands  "  of  gentility.  The  most  violent  dispute  that  I  ever  knew 
in  high  life,  was  one  that  occurred  at  a  country  town,  on  a 
question  of  precedence  between  the  ladies  of  a  manufacturer  of 
pins  and  a  manufacturer  of  needles. 

At  the  town  where  I  was  situated  there  were  perpetual  alter 
cations  of  the  kind.  The  head  manufacturer's  lady,  for 
instance,  was  at  daggers  drawings  with  the  head  shopkeeper's, 
and  both  were  too  rich  and  had  too  many  friends  to  be  treated 
lightly.  The  doctor's  and  lawyer's  ladies  held  their  heads  still 
higher ;  but  they  in  their  turn  were  kept  in  check  by  the  wife 
of  a  country  banker,  who  kept  her  own  carriage ;  while  a  mas 
culine  widow  of  cracked  character,  and  second-hand  fashion, 
who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  was  in  some  way  related  to 
nobility,  looked  down  upon  them  all.  She  had  been  exiled 
from  the  great  world,  but  here  she  ruled  absolute.  To  be  sure 
her  manners  were  not  over-elegant,  nor  her  fortune  over-large ; 
but  then,  sir,  her  blood — oh,  her  blood  carried  it  all  hollow, 
there  was  no  withstanding  a  woman  with  such  blood  in  her 
veins. 

After  all,  she  had  frequent  battles  for  precedence  at  balls  and 
assemblies,  with  some  of  the  sturdy  dames  of  the  neighbor^ 
hood,  who  stood  upon  their  wealth  and  their  reputations ;  but 
then  she  had  two  dashing  daughters,  who  dressed  as  fine  as 
dragons,  and  had  as  high  blood  as  their  mother,  and  seconded 
her  in  everything.  So  they  carried  their  point  with  high  heads, 
and  every  body  hated,  abused,  and  stood  in  awe  of  the  Fan- 
tadlins. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  fashionable  world  in  this  self-im 
portant  little  town.  Unluckily  I  was  not  as  well  aquainted 
with  its  politics  as  I  should  have  been.  I  had  found  myself  a 
stranger  and  in  great  perplexities  during  my  first  season;  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  put  myself  under  the  patronage  of 
some  powerful  name,  and  thus  to  take  the  field  with  the  pre 
judices  of  the  public  in  my  favor.  I  cast  round  my  thoughts 
for  the  purpose,  and  in  an  evil  hour  they  fell  upon  Mrs.  Fan- 
tadlin.  No  one  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  more  absolute  sway  in 
the  world  of  fashion.  I  had  always  noticed  that  her  party 
slammed  the  box  door  the  loudest  at  the  theatre;  had  most 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  149 

beaux  attending  on  them;  and  talked  and  laughed  loudest 
daring  the  performance;  and  then  the  Miss  Fantadlins  wore 
always  more  feathers  and  flowers  than  any  other  ladies ;  and 
used  quizzing  glasses  incessantly.  The  first  evening  of  my 
theatre's  reopening,  therefore,  was  announced  in  flaring  capi 
tals  on  the  play  bills,  "under  the  patronage  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Fantadlin." 

Sir,  the  whole  community  flew  to  arms !  The  banker's  wife 
felt  her  dignity  grievously  insulted  at  not  having  the  preference ; 
her  husband  being  high  bailiff,  and  the  richest  man  in  the 
place.  She  immediately  issued  invitations  for  a  large  party, 
for  the  night  of  the  performance,  and  asked  many  a  lady  to  it 
whom  she  never  had  noticed  before.  The  fashionable  world 
had  long  groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  Fantadlins,  and 
were  glad  to  make  a  common  cause  against  this  new  instance 
of  assumption.— Presume  to  patronize  the  theatre !  insufferable ! 
Those,  too,  who  had  never  before  been  noticed  by  the  banker's 
lady,  were  ready  to  enlist  in  any  quarrel,  for  the  honor  of  her 
acquaintance.  All  minor  feuds  were  therefore  forgotten.  The 
doctor's  lady  and  the  lawyer's  lady  met  together;  and  the 
manufacturer's  lady  and  the  shopkeeper's  lady  kissed  each 
other,  and  aH,  headed  by  the  banker's  lady,  voted  the  theatre 
a  bore,  and  determined  to  encourage  nothing  but  the  Indian 
Jugglers,  and  Mr.  Walker's  Eidonianeon. 

Alas  for  poor  Pillgarlick!  I  little  knew  the  mischief  that 
was  brewing  against  me.  My  box  book  remained  blank.  The 
evening  arrived,  but  no  audience.  The  music  struck  up  to  a 
tolerable  pit  and  gallery,  but  no  fashionables!  I  peeped 
anxiously  from  behind  the  curtain,  but  the  time  passed  away ; 
the  play  was  retarded  until  pit  and  gallery  became  furious; 
and  I  had  to  raise  the  curtain,  and  play  my  greatest  part  in 
tragedy  to  "a  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes." 

It  is  true  the  Fantadlins  came  late,  as  was  their  custom,  and 
entered  like  a  tempest,  with  a  flutter  of  feathers  and  red  shawls ; 
but  they  were  evidently  disconcerted  at  finding  they  had  no 
one  to  admire  and  envy  them,  and  were  enraged  at  this  glaring 
defection  of  their  fashionable  followers.  All  the  beau-monde 
were  engaged  at  the  banker's  lady's  rout.  They  remained  for 
some  time  in  solitary  and  uncomfortable  state,  and  though  they 
had  the  theatre  almost  to  themselves,  yet,  for  the  first  time, 
they  talked  in  whispers.  They  left  the  house  at  the  end  of  the 
first  piece,  and  I  never  saw  them  afterwards. 

Such  was  the  rock  on  which  I  split.     I  never  got  over  the 


150  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

patronage  of  the  Fantadlin  family.  It  became  the  vogue  to 
abuse  the  theatre  and  declare  the  performers  shocking.  An 
equestrian  troupe  opened  a  circus  in  the  town  about  the  same 
time,  and  rose  on  my  ruins.  My  house  was  deserted;  my 
actors  grew  discontented  because  they  were  ill  paid ;  my  door 
became  a  hammering-place  for  every  bailiff  in  the  county ;  and 
my  wife  became  more  and  more  shrewish  and  tormenting,  the 
more  I  wanted  comfort. 

The  establishment  now  became  a  scene  of  confusion  and 
peculation.  I  was  considered  a  ruined  man,  and  of  course  fair 
game  for  every  one  to  pluck  at,  as  every  one  plunders  a  sink 
ing  ship.  Day  after  day  some  of  the  troupe  deserted,  and  like 
deserting  soldiers,  carried  off  their  arms  and  accoutrements 
with  them.  In  this  manner  my  wardrobe  took  legs  and  walked 
away ;  my  finery  strolled  all  over  the  country ;  my  swords  and 
daggers  glittered  in  every  barn ;  until  at  last  my  tailor  made 
"  one  fell  swoop,"  and  carried  off  three  dress  coats,  half  a  dozen 
doublets,  and  nineteen  pair  of  flesh-colored  pantaloons. 

This  was  the  "be  all  and  the  end  all"  of  my  fortune.  I  no 
longer  hesitated  what  to  do.  Egad,  thought  I,  since  stealing  is 
the  order  of  the  day,  I'll  steal  too.  So  I  secretly  gathered 
together  the  jewels  of  my  wardrobe ;  packed  up  a  hero's  dress 
in  a  handkerchief,  slung  it  on  the  end  of  a  tragedy  sword,  and 
quietly  stole  off  at  dead  of  night — "the  bell  then  beating  one," 
— leaving  my  queen  and  kingdom  to  the  mercy  of  my  rebellious 
subjects,  and  my  merciless  foes,  the  bum-bailiffs. 

Such,  sir,  was  the  "  end  of  all  my  greatness."  I  was  heartily 
cured  of  all  passion  for  governing,  and  returned  once  more  into 
the  ranks.  I  had  for  some  time  the  usual  run  of  an  actor's 
life.  I  played  in  various  country  theatres,  at  fairs,  and  in 
barns ;  sometimes  hard  pushed ;  sometimes  flush,  until  on  one 
occasion  I  came  within  an  ace  of  making  my  fortune,  and 
becoming  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  age. 

I  was  playing  the  part  of  Richard  the  Third  in  a  country 
barn,  and  absolutely  "  out-Heroding  Herod."  An  agent  of  one 
of  the  great  London  theatres  was  present.  He  was  on  the  look 
out  for  something  that  might  be  got  up  as  a  prodigy.  The 
theatre,  it  seems,  was  in  desperate  condition — nothing  but  a 
miracle  could  save  it.  He  pitched  upon  me  for  that  miracle. 
I  had  a  remarkable  bluster  in  my  style,  and  swagger  in  my 
gait,  and  having  taken  to  drink  a  little  during  my  troubles, 
my  voice  was  somewhat  cracked ;  so  that  it  seemed  like  two 
voices  run  into  one.  The  thought  struck  the  agent  to  bring 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  131 

me  out  as  a  theatrical  wonder ;  as  the  restorer  of  natural  and 
legitimate  acting;  as  the  only  one  who  could  understand  and 
act  Shakspeare  rightly.  He  waited  upon  me  the  next  morn 
ing,  and  opened  his  plan.  I  shrunk  from  it  with  becoming 
modesty ;  for  well  as  I  thought  of  myself,  I  felt  myself  unworthy 
of  such  praise. 

'"Sblood,  man!"  said  he,  "no  praise  at  all.  You  don't  im 
agine  that  I  think  you  all  this.  I  only  want  the  public  to 
think  so.  Nothing  so  easy  as  gulling  the  public  if  you  only  set 
up  a  prodigy.  You  need  not  try  to  act  well,  you  must  only  act 
furiously.  No  matter  what  you  do,  or  how  you  act,  so  that  it 
be  but  odd  and  strange.  We  will  have  all  the  pit  packed,  and 
the  newspapers  hired.  Whatever  you  do  different  from  fam 
ous  actors,  it  shall  be  insisted  that  you  are  right  and  they  were 
wrong.  If  you  rant,  it  shall  be  pure  passion ;  if  you  are  vulgar, 
it  shall  be  a  touch  of  nature.  Every  one  shall  be  prepared  to 
fall  into  raptures,  and  shout  and  yell,  at  certain  points  which 
you  shall  make.  If  you  do  but  escape  pelting  the  first  night, 
your  fortune  and  the  fortune  of  the  theatre  is  made. " 

I  set  off  for  London,  therefore,  full  of  new  hopes.  I  was  to 
be  the  restorer  of  Shakspeare  and  nature,  and  the  legitimate 
drama;  my  very  swagger  was  to  be  heroic,  and  my  cracked 
voice  the  standard  of  elocution.  Alas,  sir !  my  usual  luck  at 
tended  me.  Before  I  arrived  in  the  metropolis,  a  rival  wonder 
had  appeared.  A  woman  who  could  dance  the  slack  rope,  and 
run  up  a  cord  from  the  stage  to  the  gallery  with  fire- works  all 
round  her.  She  was  seized  on  by  the  management  with 
avidity ;  she  was  the  saving  of  the  great  national  theatre  for 
the  season.  Nothing  was  talked  of  but  Madame  Saqui's  fire 
works  and  flame-colored  pantaloons ;  and  nature,  Shakspeare, 
the  legitimate  drama,  and  poor  Pillgarlick  were  completely 
left  in  the  lurch. 

However,  as  the  manager  was  in  honor  bound  to  provide  for 
me,  he  kept  his  word.  It  had  been  a  turn-up  of  a  die  whether 
I  should  be  Alexander  the  Great  or  Alexander  the  copper 
smith  ;  the  latter  carried  it.  I  could  not  be  put  at  the  head  of 
the  drama,  so  I  was  put  at  the  tail.  In  other  words,  I  was  en 
rolled  among  the  number  of  what  are  called  useful  men;  who, 
let  me  tell  you,  are  the  only  comfortable  actors  on  the  stage. 
We  are  safe  from  hisses  and  below  the  hope  of  applause.  We 
fear  not  the  success  of  rivals,  nor  dread  the  critic's  pen.  So  long 
as  we  get  the  words  of  our  parts,  and  they  are  not  of ren  many, 
it  is  all  we  care  for.  We  have  our  own  merriment,  our  own 


152  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

friends,  and  our  own  admirers ;  for  every  actor  has  his  friends 
and  admirers,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  The  first-rate 
actor  dines  with  the  noble  amateur,  and  entertains  a  fashion 
able  table  with  scraps  and  songs  and  theatrical  slip-slop.  The 
second-rate  actors  have  their  second-rate  friends  and  admirers, 
with  whom  they  likewise  spout  tragedy  and  talk  slip-slop ;  and 
so  down  even  to  us ;  who  have  our  friends  and  admirers  among 
spruce  clerks  and  aspiring  apprentices,  who  treat  us  to  a  din 
ner  now  and  then,  and  enjoy  at  tenth  hand  the  same  scraps 
and  songs  and  slip-slop  that  have  been  served  up  by  our  more 
fortunate  brethren  at  the  tables  of  the  great. 

I  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  theatrical  life,  knew  what 
true  pleasure  is.  I  have  known  enough  of  notoriety  to  pity  the 
poor  devils  who  are  called  favorites  of  the  public.  I  would 
rather  be  a  kitten  in  the  arms  of  a  spoiled  child,  to  be  one 
moment  petted  and  pampered,  and  the  next  moment  thumped 
over  the  head  with  the  spoon.  I  smile,  too,  to  see  our  leading 
actors,  fretting  themselves  with  envy  and  jealousy  about  a 
trumpery  renown,  questionable  in  its  quality  and  uncertain  in 
in  its  duration.  I  laugh,  too,  though  of  course  in  my  sleeve,  at 
the  bustle  and  importance  and  trouble  and  perplexities  of  our 
manager,  who  is  harassing  himself  to  death  in  the  hopeless 
effort  to  please  every  body. 

I  have  found  among  my  fellow  subalterns  two  or  three 
quondam  managers,  who,  like  myself,  have  wielded  the  scep 
tres  of  country  theatres;  and  we  have  many  a  sly  joke  to 
gether  at  the  expense  of  the  manager  and  the  public.  Some 
times,  too,  we  meet  like  deposed  and  exiled  kings,  talk  over  the 
events  of  our  respective  reigns ;  moralize  over  a  tankard  of  ale, 
and  laugh  at  the  humbug  of  the  great  and  little  world ;  which, 
I  take  it,  is  the  very  essence  of  practical  philosophy. 


Thus  end  the  anecdotes  of  Buckthorne  and  his  friends.  A 
few  mornings  after  our  hearing  the  history  of  the  ex-manager, 
he  bounced  into  my  room  before  I  was  out  of  bed. 

"Give  me  joy!  give  me  joy!"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  the  utmost  glee,  "  my  great  expectations  are  realized !" 

I  stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry.  "My 
booby  cousin  is  dead!"  cried  he,  "may  he  rest  in  peace!  He 
nearly  broke  his  neck  in  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  a  fox-chase. 
By  good  luck  he  lived  long  enough  to  make  his  will.  He  has 
made  me  his  heir,  partly  out  of  an  odd  feeling  of  retributive 
justice,  and  partly  because,  as  he  says,  none  of  his  own  family 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  153 

or  friends  know  how  to  enjoy  such  an  estate.  I'm  off  to  the 
country  to  take  possession.  I've  done  with  authorship. — That 
for  the  critics !"  said  he,  snapping  his  fingers.  "  Come  down  to 
Doubting  Castle  when  I  get  settled,  and  egad !  Til  give  you  a 
rouse."  So  saving  he  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand  and 
bounded  off  in  high  spirits. 

A  long  time  elapsed  before  I  heard  from  him  again.  Indeed, 
it  was  but  a  s?iort  time  since  that  I  received  a  letter  written  in 
the  happiest  of  moods.  He  was  getting  the  estate  into  fine 
order,  everything  went  to  his  wishes,  and  what  was  more,  he 
was  married  to  Sacharissa:  who,  it  seems,  had  always  enter 
tained  an  ardent  tnough  secret  attachment  for  him,  which  he 
fortunately  discovered  just  after  coming  to  his  estate. 

':  I  find," said  he,  "you  are  a  little  given  to  the  sin  of  author 
ship  which  I  renounce.  If  the  anecdotes  I  have  given  you  of 
my  story  are-  of  any  interest,  you  may  make  use  of  them ;  but 
come  down  to  Doubting  Castle  and  see  how  we  live,  and  I'll 
give  you  my  whole  London  life  over  a  social  glass;  and  a 
rattling  history  it  shall  be  about  authors  and  reviewers. " 


If  ever  I  visit  Doubting  Castle,  and  get  the  history  h» 
promises,  the  public  shall  be  sure  to  hear  of  it. 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PAET  THIRD. 


THE  ITALIAN  BANDITTI. 


THE  INN  AT  TEREACINA. 

CRACK!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! 

"Here  comes  the  estafette  from  Naples,"  said  mine  host  of 
the  inn  at  Terracina,  "bring  out  the  relay." 

The  estafette  came  as  usual  galloping  up  the  road,  brandish 
ing  over  his  head  a  short-handled  whip,  with  a  long  knotted 
lash;  every  smack  of  which  made  a  report  like  a  pistol.  He 
was  a  tight  square-set  young  fellow,  in  the  customary  uniform— 
a  smart  blue  coat,  ornamented  with  facings  and  gold  lace,  but  so 
short  behind  as  to  reach  scarcely  below  his  waistband,  and 
cocked  up  not  unlike  the  tail  of  a  wren.  A  cocked  hat,  edged 
with  gold  lace;  a  pair  of  stiff  riding  boots;  but  instead  of  the 
usual  leathern  breeches  he  had  a  fragment  of  a  pair  of  drawers 
that  scarcely  furnished  an  apology  for  modesty  to  hide  behind. 

The  estatette  galloped  up  to  the  door  and  jumped  from  his 
.horse. 

"A glass  of  rosolio,  a  fresh  horse,  and  a  pair  of  breeches," 
said  he,  ' '  and  quickly — I  am  behind  my  time,  and  must  be 
off." 

" San  Genaro !"  replied  the  host,  "why,  where  hast  thou  left 
thy  garment?" 

"  Among  the  robbers  between  this  and  Fondi." 

"What!  rob  an  estafette !  I  never  heard  of  such  folly.  What 
could  they  hope  to  get  from  thee  ?" 


THE  INN  AT  TERRACTNA.  155 

"My  leather  breeches!"  replied  the  estafette.  "They  were 
bran  new,  and  shone  like  gold,  and  hit  the  fancy  of  the  captain." 

' '  Well,  these  fellows  grow  worse  and  worse.  To  meddle  with 
an  estafette !  And  that  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches !" 

The  robbing  of  a  government  messenger  seemed  to  strike  the 
host  with  more  astonishment  than  any  other  enormity  that 
had  taken  place  on  the  road ;  and  indeed  it  was  the  first  time 
so  wanton  an  outrage  had  been  committed ;  the  robbers  gen 
erally  taking  care  not  to  meddle  with  any  thing  belonging  to 
government. 

The  estafette  was  by  this  time  equipped ;  for  he  had  not  lost 
an  instant  in  making  his  preparations  while  talking.  The 
relay  was  ready :  the  rosolio  tossed  off.  He  grasped  the  reins 
and  the  stirrup. 

"Were  there  many  robbers  in  the  band?"  said  a  handsome, 
dark  young  man,  stepping  forward  from  the  door  of  the  inn. 

"As  formidable  a  band  as  ever  I  saw,"  said  the  estafette, 
springing  into  the  saddle. 

"Are  they  cruel  to  travellers?"  said  a  beautiful  young  Vene 
tian  lady,  who  had  been  hanging  on  the  gentleman's  arm. 

"  Cruel,  signora!"  echoed  the  estafette,  giving  a  glance  at  the 
lady  as  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse.  "  Corpo  del  Bacco!  they 
stiletto  all  the  men,  and  as  to  the  women " 

Crack!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! — the  last  words  were 
drowned  in  the  smacking  of  the  whip,  and  away  galloped  the 
estafette  along  the  road  to  the  Pontine  marshes. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  ejaculated  the  fair  Venetian,  "what  will 
become  of  us !" 

The  inn  of  Terracina  stands  just  outside  of  the  walls  of  the 
old  town  of  that  name,  on  the  frontiers  of  the  Roman  territory. 
A  little,  lazy,  Italian  town,  the  inhabitants  of  which,  apparently 
heedless  and  listless,  are  said  to  be  little  better  than  the  brig 
ands  which  surround  them,  and  indeed  are  half  of  them  sup 
posed  to  be  in  some  way  or  other  connected  with  the  robbers. 
A  vast,  rocky  height  rises  perpendicularly  above  it,  with  the 
ruins  of  the  castle  of  Theodoric  the  Goth,  crowning  its  summit ; 
before  it  spreads  the  wide  bosom  of  the  Mediterranean,  that  sea 
without  flux  or  reflux.  There  seems  an  idle  pause  in  every 
thing  about  this  place.  The  port  is  without  a  sail,  excepting 
that  once  in  a  while  a  solitary  felucca  may  be  seen,  disgorging 
its  holy  cargo  of  baccala,  the  meagre  provision  for  the  Qua- 
resima  or  Lent.  The  naked  watch  towers,  rising  here  aad 


156  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

there  along  the  coast,  speak  of  pirates  and  corsairs  which  hover 
about  these  shores :  while  the  low  huts,  as  stations  for  soldiers, 
which  dot  the  distant  road,  as  it  winds  through  an  olive  grove, 
intimate  that  in  the  ascent  there  is  danger  for  the  traveller  and 
facility  for  the  bandit. 

Indeed,  it  is  between  this  town  and  Fondi  that  the  road  to 
Naples  is  mostly  infested  by  banditti.  It  winds  among  rocky 
and  solitary  places,  where  the  robbers  are  enabled  to  see  the 
traveller  from  a  distance  from  the  brows  of  hills  or  impending 
precipices,  and  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  at  the  lonely  and  difficult 
passes. 

At  the  time  that  the  estafette  made  this  sudden  appearance, 
almost  in  cuerpo,  the  audacity  of  the  robbers  had  risen  to  an 
unparalleled  height.  They  had  their  spies  and  emissaries  in 
every  town,  village,  and  osteria,  to  give  them  notice  of  the 
quality  and  movements  of  travellers.  They  did  not  scruple  to 
send  messages  into  the  country  towns  and  villas,  demanding 
certain  sums  of  money,  or  articles  of  dress  and  luxury ;  with 
menaces  of  vengeance  in  case  of  refusal.  They  had  plundered 
carriages ;  carried  people  of  rank  and  fortune  into  the  moun 
tains  and  obliged  them  to  write  for  heavy  ransoms ;  and  had 
committed  outrages  on  females  who  had  fallen  in  their  power. 

The  police  exerted  its  rigor  in  vain.  The  brigands  were  too 
numerous  and  powerful  for  a  weak  police.  They  were  counten 
anced  and  cherished  by  several  of  the  villages;  and  though 
now  and  then  the  limbs  of  malefactors  hung  blackening  in  the 
trees  near  which  they  had  committed  some  atrocity ;  or  their 
heads  stuck  upon  posts  in  iron  cages  made  some  dreary  part  of 
the  road  still  more  dreary,  still  they  seemed  to  strike  dismay 
into  no  bosom  but  that  of  the  traveller. 

The  dark,  handsome  young  man,  and  the  Venetian  lady, 
whom  I  have  mentioned,  had  arrived  early  that  afternoon  in  a 
private  carriage,  drawn  by  mules  and  attended  by  a  single 
servant.  They  had  been  recently  married,  were  spending  the 
honeymoon  in  travelling  through  these  delicious  countries,  and 
were  on  their  way  to  visit  a  rich  aunt  of  the  young  lady's  at 
Naples. 

The  lady  was  young,  and  tender  and  timid.  The  stories  she 
had  heard  along  the  road  had  filled  her  with  apprehension,  not 
more  for  herself  than  for  her  husband;  for  though  she  had 
been  married  almost  a  month,  she  still  loved  him  almost  to 
idolatry.  When  she  reached  Terracina  the  rumors  of  the  road 
had  increased  to  an  alarming  magnitude ;  and  the  sight  of  two 


THE  INN  AT  TERRACINA.  157 

robbers'  skulls  grinning  in  iron  cages  on  each  side  of  the  old 
gateway  of  the  town  brought  her  to  a  pause.  Her  husband 
had  tried  in  vain  to  reassure  her.  They  had  lingered  all  the 
afternoon  at  the  inn,  until  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  starting 
that  evening,  and  the  parting  words  of  the  estafette  completed 
her  affright. 

"  Let  us  return  to  Home,"  said  she,  putting  her  arm  within 
her  husband's,  and  drawing  towards  him  as  if  for  protection — 
" let  us  return  to  Rome  and  give  up  this  visit  to  Naples." 

"  And  give  up  the  visit  to  your  aunt,  too,"  said  the  husband. 

"Nay — what  is  my  aunt  in  comparison  with  your  safety," 
said  she,  looking  up  tenderly  in  his  face. 

There  was  something  in  her  tone  and  manner  that  showed 
she  really  was  thinking  more  of  her  husband's  safety  at  that 
moment  than  of  her  own ;  and  being  recently  married,  and  a 
match  of  pure  affection,  too,  it  is  very  possible  that  she  was. 
At  least  her  husband  thought  so.  Indeed,  any  one  who  has 
heard  the  sweet,  musical  tone  of  a  Venetian  voice,  and  the 
melting  tenderness  of  a  Venetian  phrase,  and  felt  the  soft 
witchery  of  a  Venetian  eye,  would  not  wonder  at  the  hus 
band's  believing  whatever  they  professed. 

He  clasped  the  white  hand  that  had  been  laid  within  his,  put 
his  arm  round  her  slender  waist,  and  drawing  her  fondly  to  his 
bosom — "This  night  at  least,"  said  he,  "we'll  pass  at  Ter- 
racina." 

Crack!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! 

Another  apparition  of  the  road  attracted  the  attention  of 
mine  host  and  his  guests.  From  the  road  across  the  Pontine 
marshes,  a  carriage  drawn  by  half  a  dozen  horses,  came  driv 
ing  at  a  furious  pace — the  postillions  smacking  their  whips  like 
mad,  as  is  the  case  when  conscious  of  the  greatness  or  the 
munificence  of  their  fare.  It  was  a  landaulet,  with  a  servant 
mounted  on  the  dickey.  The  compact,  highly  finished,  yet 
proudly  simple  construction  of  the  carriage ;  the  quantity  of 
neat,  well-arranged  trunks  and  conveniences ;  the  loads  of  box 
coats  and  upper  benjamins  on  the  dickey — and  the  fresh,  burly, 
gruff -looking  face  at  the  window,  proclaimed  at  once  that  it 
was  the  equipage  of  an  Englishman. 

"  Fresh  horses  to  Fondi,"  said  the  Englishman,  as  the  land 
lord  came  bowing  to  the  carriage  door. 

"Would  not  his  Excellenza  alight  and  take  some  refresh 
ment?" 

"No — he  did  not  mean  to  eat  until  he  got  to  Fondi!" 


158  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

"  But  the  horses  will  be  some  time  in  getting  ready — " 

"Ah — that's  always  the  case— nothing  but  delay  in  this 
cursed  country." 

"  If  big  Excellenza  would  only  walk  into  the  house — " 

"No,  no,  no! — I  tell  you  no! — I  want  nothing  but  horses, 
and  as  quick  as  possible.  John !  see  that  the  horses  are  got 
ready,  and  don't  let  us  be  kept  here  an  hour  or  two.  Tell  him 
if  we're  delayed  over  the  time,  I'll  lodge  a  complaint  with  the 
postmaster." 

John  touched  his  hat,  and  set  off  to  obey  his  master's  orders, 
•with  the  taciturn  obedience  of  an  English  servant.  He  was  a 
ruddy,  round-faced  fellow,  with  hair  cropped  close;  a  short 
coat,  drab  breeches,  and  long  gaiters;  and  appeared  to  have 
almost  as  much  contempt  as  his  master  for  everything  around 
him. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Englishman  got  out  of  the  carriage  and 
walked  up  and  down  before  the  inn,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets:  taking  no  notice  of  the  crowd  of  idlers  who  were 
gazing  at  him  and  his  equipage.  He  was  tall,  stout,  and  well 
made;  dressed  with  neatness  and  precision,  wore  a  travelling- 
cap  of  the  color  of  gingerbread,  and  had  rather  an  unhappy 
expression  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  partly  from  not 
having  yet  made  his  dinner,  and  partly  from  not  having  been 
able  to  get  on  at  a  greater  rate  than  seven  miles  an  hour. 
Not  that  he  had  any  other  cause  for  haste  than  an  English 
man's  usual  hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  a  journey ;  or,  to  use 
the  regular  phrase,  "  to  get  on." 

After  some  time  the  servant  returned  from  the  stable  with 
an  sour  a  look  as  his  master. 

"Are  the  horses  ready,  John?" 

"No,  sir— I  never  saw  such  a  place.  There's  no  getting  any 
thing  done.  I  think  your  honor  had  better  step  into  the  house 
and  get  something  to  eat ;  it  will  be  a  long  while  before  we  get 
to  Fundy." 

"  D n  the  house— it's  a  mere  trick— I'll  not  eat  anything, 

just  to  spite  them,"  said  the  Englishman,  still  more  crusty  at 
the  prospect  of  being  so  long  without  big  dinner. 

"They  say  your  honor's  very  wrong,"  said  John,  "  to  set  off 
at  this  late  hour.  The  road's  full  of  highwaymen." 

"Mere  tales  to  get  custom." 

"The  estafette  which  passed  us  was  stopped  by  a  whole 
gang,"  said  John,  increasing  his  emphasis  with  each  additional 
piece  of  information. 


•THE  INN  AT  TERRACINA.  159 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  They  robbed  bim  of  bis  breeches,"  said  John,  giving  at  thf> 
same  time  a  hitch  to  his  own  waist-band. 

"All  humbug!" 

Here  the  dark,  handsome  young  man  stepped  forward  and 
addressing  the  Englishman  very  politely  in  broken  English, 
invited  him  to  partake  of  a  repast  he  was  about  to  make. 
"  Thank'ee,"  said  the  Englishman,  thrusting  his  hands  deeper 
into  his  pockets,  and  casting  a  slight  side  glance  of  suspicion  at 
the  young  man,  as  if  he  thought  from  his  civility  he  must  have 
a  design  upon  his  purse. 

"  We  shall  be  most  happy  if  you  will  do  us  that  favor,"  said 
the  lady,  in  her  soft  Venetian  dialect.  There  was  a  sweetness 
in  her  accents  that  was  most  persuasive.  The  Englishman  cast 
a  look  upon  her  countenance ;  her  beauty  was  still  more  elo 
quent.  His  features  instantly  relaxed.  He  made  an  attempt 
at  a  civil  bow.  "With  great  pleasure,  signora,"  said  he. 

In  short,  the  eagerness  to  "get  on"  was  suddenly  slackened; 
the  determination  to  famish  himself  as  far  as  Fondi  by  way  of 
punishing  the  landlord  was  abandoned;  John  chose  the  best 
apartment  in  the  inn  for  his  master's  reception,  and  prepara 
tions  were  made  to  remain  there  until  morning. 

The  carriage  was  unpacked  of  such  of  its  contents  as  were 
indispensable  for  the  night.  There  was  the  usual  parade  of 
trunks  and  writing-desks,  and  portfolios,  and  dressing-boxes, 
and  those  other  oppressive  conveniences  which  burden  a  com 
fortable  man.  The  observant  loiterers  about  the  inn  door, 
wrapped  up  in  great  dirt-colored  cloaks,  with  only  a  hawk's 
eye  uncovered,  made  many  remarks  to  each  other  on  this 
quantity  of  luggage  that  seemed  enough  for  an  army.  And 
the  domestics  of  the  inn  talked  with  wonder  of  the  splendid 
*dressing-case,  with  its  gold  and  silver  furniture  that  was 
spread  out  on  the  toilette  table,  and  the  bag  of  gold  that 
chinked  as  it  was  taken  out  of  the  trunk.  The  strange 
"Milor's"  wealth,  and  the  treasures  ne  carried  about  him,  were 
the  talk,  that  evening,  over  all  Terracina. 

The  Englishman  took  some  time  to  make  his  ablutions  and 
arrange  his  dress  for  table,  and  after  considerable  labor  and 
effort  in  putting  himself  at  his  ease,  made  his  appearance,  with 
stiff  white  cravat,  his  clothes  free  from  the  least  speck  of  dust, 
and  adjusted  with  precision.  He  made  a  formal  bow  on  enter 
ing,  which  no  doubt  he  meant  to  be  cordial,  but  which  any  one 
else  would  have  considered  cool,  and  took  his  seat. 


160  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

Tne  supper,  as  it  was  termed  by  the  Italian,  or  dinner,  as  the 
Englishman  called  it,  was  now  served.  Heaven  and  earth,  and 
the  waters  under  the  earth,  had  been  moved  to  furnish  it,  for 
there  were  birds  of  the  air  and  beasts  of  the  earth  and  fish  of 
the  sea.  The  Englishman's  servant,  too,  had  turned  the 
kitchen  topsy-turvy  in  his  zeal  to  cook  his  master  a  beefsteak ; 
and  made  his  appearance  loaded  with  ketchup,  and  soy,  and 
Cayenne  pepper,  and  Harvey  sauce,  and  a  bottle  of  port  wine, 
from  that  warehouse,  the  carriage,  in  which  his  master  seemed 
desirous  of  carrying  England  about  the  world  with  him. 
Every  thing,  however,  according  to  the  Englishman,  was 
execrable.  The  tureen  of  soup  was  a  black  sea,  with  livers 
and  limbs  and  fragments  of  all  kinds  of  birds  and  beasts,  float 
ing  like  wrecks  about  it.  A  meagre  winged  animal,  whi*h  my 
host  called  a  delicate  chicken,  was  too  delicate  for  his  stomach, 
for  it  had  evidently  died  of  a  consumption.  The  macaroni  was 
smoked.  The  beefsteak  was  tough  buffalo's  flesh,  and  the 
countenance  of  mine  host  confirmed  the  assertion.  Nothing 
seemed  to  hit  his  palate  but  a  dish  of  stewed  eels,  of  which  he 
ate  with  great  relish,  but  had  nearly  refunded  them  when  told 
that  they  were  vipers,  caught  among  the  rocks  of  Terracina, 
and  esteemed  a  great  delicacy. 

In  short,  the  Englishman  ate  and  growled,  and  ate  and 
growled,  like  a  cat  eating  in  company,  pronouncing  himself 
poisoned  by  every  dish,  yet  eating  on  in  defiance  of  death  and 
the  doctor.  The  Venetian  lady,  not  accustomed  to  English 
travellers,  almost  repented  having  persuaded  him  to  the  meal; 
for  though  very  gracious  to  her,  he  was  so  crusty  to  all  the 
world  beside,  that  she  stood  in  awe  of  him.  There  is  nothing, 
however,  that  conquers  John  Bull's  crustiness  sooner  than  eat 
ing,  whatever  may  be  the  cookery;  and  nothing  brings  him 
into  good  humor  with  his  company  sooner  than  eating  together ; 
the  Englishman,  therefore,  had  not  half  finished  his  repast  and 
his  bottle,  before  he  began  to  think  the  Venetian  a  very  tolera 
ble  fellow  for  a  foreigner,  and  his  wife  almost  handsome  enough 
to  be  an  Englishwoman. 

In  the  course  of  the  repast  the  tales  of  robbers  which  har 
assed  the  mind  of  the  fair  Venetian,  were  brought  into  discus 
sion.  The  landlord  and  the  waiter  served  up  such  a  number  of 
them  as  they  served  up  the  dishes,  that  they  almost  frightened 
away  the  poor  lady's  appetite.  Among  these  was  the  story  of 
the  school  of  Terracina,  still  fresh  in  every  mind,  where  the 
students  were  carried  up  the  mountains  by  the  banditti,  in 


THE  INN  AT  TERRACINA.  161 

hopes  of  ransom,  and  one  of  them  massacred,  to  bring  the 
parents  to  terms  for  the  others.  There  was  a  story  also  of  a 
gentleman  of  Rome,  who  delayed  remitting  the  ransom 
demanded  for  his  son,  detained  by  the  banditti,  and  received 
one  of  his  son's  ears  in  a  letter  with  information  that  the  other 
would  be  remitted  to  him  soon,  if  the  money  were  not  forth 
coming,  and  that  in  this  way  he  would  receive  the  boy  by  in 
stalments  until  he  came  to  terms. 

The  fair  Venetian  shuddered  as  she  heard  these  tales.  The 
landlord,  like  a  true  story-teller,  doubled  the  dose  when  he 
saw  how  it  operated.  He  was  just  proceeding  to  relate  the 
misfortunes  of  a  great  English  lord  and  his  family,  when  the 
Englishman,  tired  of  his  volubility,  testily  interrupted  him, 
and  pronounced  these  accounts  mere  traveller's  tales,  or  the 
exaggerations  of  peasants  and  innkeepers.  The  landlord  was 
indignant  at  the  doubt  levelled  at  his  stories,  and  the  innuendo 
levelled  at  his  cloth ;  he  cited  half  a  dozen  stories  still  more 
terrible,  to  corroborate  those  he  had  already  told. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  them,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  But  the  robbers  had  been  tried  and  executed." 

"  All  a  farce  1" 

"But  their" heads  were  stuck  up  along  the  road." 

' '  Old  skulls  accumulated  during  a  century. " 

The  landlord  muttered  to  himself  as  he  went  out  at  the  door, 
' '  San  Genaro,  come  sono  singolari  questi  Inglesi. " 

A  fresh  hubbub  outside  of  the  inn  announced  the  arrival  of 
more  travellers;  and  from  the  variety  of  voices,  or  rather 
clamors,  the  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  rattling  of  wheels, 
and  the  general  uproar  both  within  and  without,  the  arrival 
seemed  to  be  numerous.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  procaccio,  and  its 
convoy — a  kind  of  caravan  of  merchandise,  that  sets  out  on 
stated  days,  under  an  escort  of  soldiery  to  protect  it '  from  the 
robbers.  Travellers  avail  themselves  of  the  occasion,  and  many 
carriages  accompany  the  procaccio.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
either  landlord  or  waiter  returned,  being  hurried  away  by  the 
tempest  of  new  custom.  When  mine  host  appeared,  there  was 
a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  countenance. — "Perhaps,"  said  he, 
as  he  cleared  away  the  table,  "perhaps  the  signer  has  not 
heard  of  what  has  happened." 

"What  ?"  said  the  Englishman,  drily. 

"  Oh,  the  procaccio  has  arrived,  and  has  brought  accounts  of 
fresh  exploits  of  the  robbers,  signer." 

"Pish!" 


162  TALKS  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

"There's  more  news  of  the  English  Milor  and  his  family," 
said  the  host,  emphatically. 

"  An  English  lord.— What  English  lord  ?" 

"Milor  Popkin." 

"  Lord  Popkin?    I  never  heard  of  such  a  title !" 

"O  Sicuro — a  great  nohleman  that  passed  through  here 
lately  with  his  Milady  and  daughters — a  magnified — one  of  the 
grand  councillors  of  London — un  almanno. " 

"  Almanno — almanno? — tut!  he  means  alderman." 

"  Sicuro,  aldermanno  Popkin,  and  the  principezza  Popkin, 
and  the  signorina  Popkin !"  said  mine  host,  triumphantly.  He 
would  now  have  entered  into  a  full  detail,  but  was  thwarted 
by  the  Englishman,  who  seemed  determined  not  to  credit  or 
indulge  him  in  his  stories.  An  Italian  tongue,  however,  is  not 
easily  checked :  that  of  mine  host  continued  to  run  on  with 
increasing  volubility  as  he  conveyed  the  fragments  of  the 
repast  out  of  the  room,  and  the  last  that  could  be  distinguished 
of  his  voice,  as  it  died  away  along  the  corridor,  was  the  con 
stant  recurrence  of  the  favorite  word  Popkin — Popkin — Pop- 
kin — pop — pop — pop. 

The  arrival  of  the  procaccio  had  indeed  filled  the  house  with 
stories  as  it  had  with  guests.  The  Englishman  and  his  com* 
pardons  walked  out  after  supper  into  the  great  hall,  or  com 
mon  room  of  the  inn,  which  runs  through  the  centre  building ; 
a  gloomy,  dirty-looking  apartment,  with  tables  placed  in  vari 
ous  parts  of  it,  at  which  some  of  the  travellers  were  seated  in 
groups,  while  others  strolled  about  in  famished  impatience  for 
their  evening's  meal.  As  the  procaccio  was  a  kind  of  caravan 
of  travellers,  there  were  people  of  every  class  and  country,  who 
had  come  in  all  kinds  of  vehicles ;  and  though  they  kept  in 
some  measure  in  separate  parties,  yet  the  being  united  under 
one  common  escort  had  jumbled  them  into  companionship  on 
the  road.  Their  formidable  number  and  the  formidable  guard 
that  accompanied  them,  had  prevented  any  molestation  from 
the  banditti;  but  every  carriage  had  its  tale  of  wonder,  and 
one  vied  with  another  in  the  recital.  Not  one  but  had  seen 
groups  of  robbers  peering  over  the  rocks ;  or  their  guns  peeping 
out  from  among  the  bushes,  or  had  been  reconnoitred  by  some 
suspicious-looking  fellow  with  scowling  eye,  who  disappeared 
on  seeing  the  guard. 

The  fair  Venetian  listened  to  all  these  stories  with  that  eager 
curiosity  with  which  we  seek  to  pamper  any  feeling  of  alarm. 
Even  the  Englishman  began  to  feel  interested  in  the  subject, 


THE  INN  AT  TEREAC1NA.  163 

and  desirous  of  gaining  more  correct  information  than  these 
mere  Hying  reports.  He  mingled  in  one  of  the  groups  which 
appeared  to  be  the  most  respectable,  and  which  was  assembled 
round  a  tall,  thin  person,  with  long  Roman  nose,  a  high  fore 
head,  and  lively  prominent  eye,  beaming  from  under  a  green 
velvet  travelling-cap  with  gold  tassel.  He  was  holding  forth 
with  all  the  fluency  of  a  man  who  talks  well  and  likes  to  exert 
his  talent.  He  was  of  Rome ;  a  surgeon  by  profession,  a  poet 
by  choice,  and  one  who  was  something  of  an  improwisatore. 
He  soon  gave  the  Englishman  abundance  of  information 
respecting  the  banditti.  "The  fact  is,"  said  he,  "that  many  of 
the  people  in  the  villages  among  the  mountains  are  robbers,  or 
rather  the  robbers  find  perfect  asylum  among  them.  They 
range  over  a  vast  extent  of  wild  impracticable  country,  along 
the  chain  of  Apennines,  bordering  on  different  states;  they 
know  all  the  difficult  passes,  the  short  cuts  and  strong-holds. 
They  are  secure  of  the  good-will  of  the  poor  and  peaceful 
inhabitants  of  those  regions,  whom  they  never  disturb,  and 
whom  they  often  enrich.  Indeed,  they  are  looked  upon  as  a 
sort  of  illegitimate  heroes  among  the  mountain  villages,  and 
some  of  the  frontier  towns,  where  they  dispose  of  their 
plunder.  From  these  mountains  they  keep  a  look-out  upon 
the  plains  and  valleys,  and  meditate  their  descents. 

"  The  road  to  Fondi,  which  you  are  about  to  travel,  is  one  of 
the  places  most  noted  for  their  exploits.  It  is  overlooked  from 
some  distance  by  little  hamlets,  perched  upon  heights.  From 
hence,  the  brigands,  like  hawks  in  their  nests,  keep  on  the 
watch  for  such  travellers  as  are  likely  to  afford  either  booty  or 
ransom.  The  windings  of  the  road  enable  them  to  see  carriages 
long  before  they  pass,  so  that  they  have  time  to  get  to  some 
advantageous  lurking-place  from  whence  to  pounce  upon  their 
prey." 

"But  why  does  not  the  police  interfere  and  root  them  out?" 
said  the  Englishman. 

"The  police  is  too  week  and  the  banditti  are  too  strong," 
replied  the  improwisatore.  "To  root  them  out  would  be  a 
more  difficult  task  than  you  imagine.  They  are  connected  and 
identified  with  the  people  of  the  villages  and  the  peasantry 
generally ;  the  numerous  bands  have  an  understanding  with 
each  other,  and  with  people  of  various  conditions  in  all  parts 
of  the  country.  They  know  all  that  is  going  on ;  a  gens  d'armes 
cannot  stir  without  their  being  aware  of  it.  They  have  their 
spies  and  emissaries  in  every  direction ;  they  lurk  about  towns, 


164  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

villages,  inns, — mingle  in  every  crowd,  pervade  every  place  of 
resort.  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  said  he,  "if  some  one 
should  be  supervising  us  at  this  moment." 

The  fair  Venetian  looked  round  fearfully  and  turned  pale. 

"  One  peculiarity  of  the  Italian  banditti"  continued  the  im- 
prowisatore,  "is  that  they  wear  a  kind  of  uniform,  or  rather 
costume,  which  designates  their  profession.  This  is  probably 
done  to  take  away  from  its  skulking  lawless  character,  and  to 
give  it  something  of  a  military  air  in  the  eyes  of  the  common 
people;  or  perhaps  to  catch  by  outward  dash  and  show  the 
fancies  of  the  young  men  of  the  villages.  These  dresses  or  cos 
tumes  are  often  rich  and  fanciful.  Some  wear  jackets  and 
breeches  of  bright  colors,  richly  embroidered;  broad  belts  of 
cloth ;  or  sashes  of  silk  net ;  broad,  high-crowned  hats,  decor 
ated  with  feathers  of  variously-colored  ribbands,  and  silk  nets 
for  the  hair. 

"Many  of  the  robbers  are  peasants  who  follow  ordinary 
occupations  in  the  villages  for  a  part  of  the  year,  and  take  to 
the  mountains  for  the  rest.  Some  only  go  out  for  a  season,  as 
it  were,  on  a  hunting  expedition,  and  then  resume  the  dress 
and  habits  of  common  Me.  Many  of  the  young  men  of  the 
villages  take  to  this  kind  of  life  occasionally  from  a  mere  love 
of  adventure,  the  wild  wandering  spirit  of  youth  and  the  con 
tagion  of  bad  example ;  but  it  is  remarked  that  they  can  never 
after  brook  a  long  continuance  in  settled  life.  They  get  fond 
of  the  unbounded  freedom  and  rude  license  they  enjoy ;  and 
there  is  something  in  this  wild  mountain  life  checquered  by 
adventure  and  peril,  that  is  wonderfully  fascinating,  inde 
pendent  of  the  gratificatin  of  cupidity  by  the  plunder  of  the 
wealthy  traveller." 

Here  the  improwisatore  was  interrupted  by  a  lively  Nea 
politan  lawyer.  "Your  mention  of  the  younger  robbers,"  said 
he,  "  puts  me  in  mind  of  an  adventure  of  a  learned  doctor,  a 
friend  of  mine,  which  happened  in  this  very  neighborhood." 

A  wish  was  of  course  expressed  to  hear  the  adventure  of  the 
doctor  by  all  except  the  improwisatore,  who,  being  fond  of 
talking  and  of  hearing  himself  talk,  and  accustomed  moreover 
to  harangue  without  interruption,  looked  rather  annoyed  at 
being  checked  when  in  full  career. 

The  Neapolitan,  however,  took  no  notice  of  his  chagrin,  but 
related  the  following  anecdote. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  LITTLE  ANTIQUARF.  165 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  LITTLE  ANTIQUARY. 

MY  friend  the  doctor  was  a  thorough  antiquary:  a  little, 
rusty,  musty  old  fellow,  always  groping  among  ruins.  He 
relished  a  building  as  you  Englishmen  relish  a  cheese,  the  more 
mouldy  and  crumbling  it  was,  the  more  it  was  to  his  taste.  A 
shell  of  an  old  nameless  temple,  or  the  cracked  walls  of  a 
broken-down  amphitheatre,  would  throw  him  into  raptures; 
and  he  took  more  delight  in  these  crusts  and  cheese  parings  of 
antiquity  than  in  the  best-conditioned  modern  edifice. 

He  had  taken  a  maggot  into  his  brain  at  one  time  to  hunt 
after  the  ancient  cities  of  the  Pelasgi  which  are  said  to  exist  to 
this  day  among  the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi ;  but  the  condi 
tion  of  which  is  strangely  unknown  to  the  antiquaries.  It  is 
said  that  he  had  made  a  great  many  valuable  notes  and  mem 
orandums  on  the  subject,  which  he  always  carried  about  with 
him,  either  for  the  purpose  of  frequent  reference,  or  because 
he  feared  the  precious  documents  might  fall  into  the  hands  of 
brother  antiquaries.  He  had  therefore  a  large  pocket  behind, 
in  which  he-  carried  them,  banging  against  his  rear  as  he 
walked. 

Be  this  as  it  may ;  happening  to  pass  a  few  days  at  Terracina, 
in  the  course  of  his  researches,  he  one  day  mounted  the  rocky 
cliffs  which  overhang  the  town,  to  visit  the  castle  of  Theodoric. 
He  was  groping  about  these  ruins,  towards  the  hour  of  sunset, 
buried  in  his  reflections, — his  wits  no  doubt  wool-gathering 
among  the  Goths  and  Romans,  when  he  heard  footsteps  behind 
him, 

He  turned  and  beheld  five  or  six  young  fellows,  of  rough, 
saucy  demeanor,  clad  in  a  singular  manner,  half  peasant,  hall 
huntsman,  with  fusils  in  then*  hands.  Their  whole  appearance 
and  carriage  left  him  in  no  doubt  into  what  company  he  had 
fallen. 

The  doctor  was  a  feeble  little  man.  poor  in  look  and  poorer 
in  purse.  He  had  but  little  money  in  his  pocket ;  but  he  had 
certain  valuables,  such  as  an  old  silver  watch,  thick  as  a  tur 
nip,  with  figures  on  it  large  enough  for  a  clock,  and  a  set  of 
seals  at  the  end  of  a  steel  chain,  that  dangled  half  down  to  his 
knees ;  all  which  were  of  precious  esteem,  being  family  reliques. 
He  had  also  a  seal  ring,  a  veritable  antique  intaglio,  that 
covered  half  his  knuckles  j  but  what  he  most  valued  was,  the 


166  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

precious  treatise  on  the  Pelasgian  cities,  which  he  would  gladly 
have  given  all  the  money  in  his  pocket  to  have  had  safe  at  the 
bottom  of  his  trunk  in  Terracina. 

However,  he  plucked  up  a  stout  heart;  at  least  as  stout  a 
heart  as  he  could,  seeing  that  he  was  but  a  puny  little  man  at 
the  best  of  times.  So  he  wished  the  hunters  a  "  buon  giorno." 
They  returned  his  salutation,  giving  the  old  gentleman  a 
sociable  slap  on  the  back  that  made  his  heart  leap  into  his 
throat. 

They  fell  into  convesation,  and  walked  for  some  time  to 
gether  among  the  heights,  the  doctor  wishing  them  all  the 
while  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater  of  Vesuvius.  At  length  they 
came  to  a  small  osteria  on  the  mountain,  where  they  proposed 
to  enter  and  have  a  cup  of  wine  together.  The  doctor  con 
sented;  though  he  would  as  soon  have  been  invited  to  drink 
hemlock. 

One  of  the  gang  remained  sentinel  at  the  door ;  the  others 
swaggered  into  the  house ;  stood  their  fusils  in  a  corner  of  the 
room ;  and  each  drawing  a  pistol  or  stiletto  out  of  his  belt,  laid 
it,  with  some  emphasis,  on  the  table.  They  now  called  lustily 
for  wine ;  drew  benches  round  the  table,  and  hailing  the  doc 
tor  as  though  he  had  been  a  boon  companion  of  long  standing, 
insisted  upon  his  sitting  down  and  making  merry.  He  corn- 
plied  with  forced  grimace,  but  with  fear  and  trembling ;  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  bench ;  supping  down  heartburn  with  every 
drop  of  liquor ;  eyeing  ruefully  the  black  muzzled  pistols,  and 
cold,  naked  stilettos.  They  pushed  the  bottle  bravely,  and 
plied  him  vigorously;  sang,  laughed,  told  excellent  stories  of 
robberies  and  combats,  and  the  little  doctor  was  fain  to  laugh 
at  these  cut-throat  pleasantries,  though  his  heart  was  dying 
away  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  bosom. 

By  their  own  account  they  were  young  men  from  the  vil 
lages,  who  had  recently  taken  up  this  line  of  life  in  the  mere 
wild  caprice  of  youth.  They  talked  of  their  exploits  as  a  sports 
man  talks  of  his  amusements.  To  shoot  down  a  traveller 
seemed  of  little  more  consequence  to  them  than  to  shoot  a  hare. 
They  spoke  with  rapture  of  the  glorious  roving  Me  they  led ; 
free  as  birds ;  here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow ;  ranging  the  forests, 
climbing  the  rocks,  scouring  the  valleys ;  the  world  their  own 
wherever  they  could  lay  hold  of  it ;  full  purses,  mery  compan 
ions;  pretty  women. — The  little  antiquary  got  fuddled  with 
their  talk  and  their  wine,  for  they  did  not  spare  bumpers.  He 
half  forgot  his  fears,  his  seal  ring,  and  his  family  watch;  even 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  TEE  LITTLE  ANTIQUARY.   167 

the  treatise  on  the  Pelasgian  cities  which  was  wanning  under 
him,  for  a  time  faded  from  his  memory,  in  the  glowing  picture 
which  they  drew.  He  declares  that  he  no  longer  wonders  at 
the  prevalence  of  this  robber  mania  among  the  mountains ;  for 
he  felt  at  the  time,  that  had  he  been  a  young  man  aud  a  strong 
man,  and  had  there  been  no  danger  of  the  galleys  in  the  back 
ground,  he  should  have  been  half  tempted  himself  to  turn 
bandit. 

At  length  the  fearful  hour  of  separating  arrived.  The  doc 
tor  was  suddenly  called  to  himself  and  his  fears,  by  seeing  the 
robbers  resume  their  weapons.  He  now  quaked  for  his  valu 
ables,  and  above  all  for  his  antiquarian  treatise.  He  endeav 
ored,  however,  to  look  cool  and  unconcerned ;  and  drew  from 
out  of  his  deep  pocket  a  long,  lank,  leathern  purse,  far  gone  in 
consumption,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  few  coin  chinked  with 
the  trembling  of  his  hand. 

The  chief  of  the  party  observed  this  movement ;  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  antiquary's  shoulder — "  Harkee !  Signer  Dot- 
tore!"  said  he,  "we  have  drank  together  as  friends  and  com 
rades,  let  us  part  as  such.  We  understand  you ;  we  know  who 
and  what  you  are ;  for  we  know  who  every  body  is  that  sleeps 
at  Terracina,  or  that  puts  foot  upon  the  road.  You  are  a  rich 
man,  but  you  carry  all  your  wealth  in  your  head.  We  can't 
get  at  it,  and  we  should  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  if  we 
could.  I  see  you  are  uneasy  about  your  ring ;  but  don't  worry 
your  mind;  it  is  not  worth  taking;  you  think  it  an  antique, 
but  it's  a  counterfeit— a  mere  sham." 

Here  the  doctor  would  have  put  in  a  word,  for  his  antiqua 
rian  pride  was  touched. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  continued  the  other,  "we've  no  time  to  dispute 
about  it.  Value  it  as  you  please.  Come,  you  are  a, brave  little 
old  signer — one  more  cup  of  wine  and  we'll  pay  the  reck 
oning.  No  compliments—  I  insist  on  it.  So — now  make  the 
best  of  your  way  back  to  Terracina ;  it's  growing  late — buono 
viaggio ! — and  harkee,  take  care  how  you  wander  among  these 
mountains." 

They  shouldered  their  fusils,  sprang  gaily  up  the  rocks,  and 
the  little  doctor  hobbled  back  to  Terracina,  rejoicing  that  the 
robbers  had  let  his  seal  ring,  his  watch,  and  his  treatise  escape 
unmolested,  though  rather  nettled  that  they  should  have  pro 
nounced  his  veritable  intaglio  a  counterfeit. 

The  improwisatore  had  shown  many  symptoms  of  impa 
tience  during  this  recital.  He  saw  his  theme  in  danger  of  being 


1(38  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

taken  out  of  his  hands  by  a  rival  story-teller,  which  to  an  able 
talker  is  always  a  serious  grievance ;  it  was  also  in  danger  of 
being  taken  away  by  a  Neapolitan,  and  that  was  still  more 
vexatious ;  as  the  members  of  the  different  Italian  states  have 
an  incessant  jealousy  of  each  other  in  all  things,  great  and  small. 
He  took  advantage  of  the  first  pause  of  the  Neapolitan  to  catch 
hold  again  of  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  resumed  he,  "the  prevalence  of  these 
banditti  is  so  extensive ;  their  power  so  combined  and  inter 
woven  with  other  ranks  of  society — 

"  For  that  matter,"  said  the  Neapolitan,  "  I  have  heard  that 
your  government  has  had  some  understanding  with  these  gen 
try,  or  at  least  winked  at  them." 

"  My  government?"  said  the  Roman,  impatiently. 

"Aye — they  say  that  Cardinal  Gonsalvi— 

"Hush!"  said  the  Roman,  holding  up  his  finger,  and  rolling 
his  large  eyes  about  the  room. 

"Nay— I  only  repeat  what  I  heard  commonly  rumored  in 
Rome,"  replied  the  other,  sturdily.  "It  was  whispered  that 
the  Cardinal  had  been  up  to  the  mountain,  and  had  an  inter 
view  with  some  of  the  chiefs.  And  I  have  been  told  that  when 
honest  people  have  been  kicking  their  heels  in  the  Cardinal's 
anti-chamber,  waiting  by  the  hour  for  admittance,  one  of  these 
stiletto-looking  fellows  has  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  entered  without  ceremony  into  the  Cardinal's  presence. 

"I  know,"  replied  the  Roman,  "that  there  have  been  such 
reports ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  government  may  have 
made  use  of  these  men  at  particular  periods,  such  as  at  the 
time  of  your  abortive  revolution,  when  your  carbonari  were  so 
busy  with  their  machinations  all  over  the  country.  The  infor 
mation  that  men  like  these  could  collect,  who  were  familiar, 
not  merely  with  all  the  recesses  and  secret  places  of  the  moun 
tains,  but  also  with  all  the  dark  and  dangerous  recesses  of  so 
ciety,  and  knew  all  that  was  plotting  in  the  world  of  mischief; 
the  utility  of  such  instruments  in  the  hands  of  government  was 
too  obvious  to  be  overlooked,  and  Cardinal  Gonsalvi  as  a  politic 
statesman,  may,  perhaps,  have  made  use  of  them ;  for  it  is  well 
known  the  robbers,  with  all  their  atrocities,  are  respectful  to 
wards  the  church,  and  devout  in  their  religion." 

"Religion! — religion?"  echoed  the  Englishman. 

' '  Yes — religion !"  repeated  the  improwisatore.  ' '  Scarce  one 
of  them  but  will  cross  himself  and  say  his  prayers  when  he 
hears  in  his  mountain  fastness  the  matin  or  the  ave  maria  bells 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  LITTLE  ANTIQUARY.   169 

sounding  from  the  valleys.  They  will  often  confess  themselves 
to  the  village  priests,  to  obtain  absolution;  and  occasionally 
visit  the  village  churches  to  pray  at  some  favorite  shrine.  I 
recollect  an  instance  in  point :  I  was  one  evening  in  the  village 
of  Frescati,  which  lies  below  the  mountains  of  Abruzzi.  The 
people,  as  usual  in  fine  evenings  in  our  Italian  towns  and  vil 
lages,  were  standing  about  in  groups  in  the  public  square,  con 
versing  and  amusing  themselves.  I  observed  a  tall,  muscular 
fellow,  wrapped  in  a  great  mantle,  passing  across  the  square, 
but  skulking  along  in  the  dark,  as  if  avoiding  notice.  The 
people,  too,  seemed  to  draw  back  as  he  passed.  It  was  whisp- 
pered  to  me  that  he  was  a  notorious  bandit." 

"But  why  was  he  not  immediately  seized?"  said  the  English 
man. 

"Because  it  was  nobody's  business;  because  nobody  wished 
to  incur  the  vengeance  of  his  comrades ;  because  there  were 
not  sufficient  gens  tfarmes  near  to  insure  security  against  the 
numbers  of  desperadoes  he  might  have  at  hand ;  because  the 
gens  d'armes  might  not  have  received  particular  instructions 
with  respect  to  him,  and  might  not  feel  disposed  to  engage  in 
the  hazardous  conflict  without  compulsion.  In  short,  I  might 
give  you  a  thousand  reasons,  rising  out  of  the  state  of  our  gov 
ernment  and  manners,  not  one  of  which  after  all  might  appear 
satisfactory." 

The  Englishman  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  con 
tempt. 

"I  have  been  told,"  added  the  Roman,  rather  quickly,  "that 
even  in  your  metropolis  of  London,  notorious  thieves,  well 
known  to  the  police  as  such,  walk  the  streets  at  noon-day,  in 
search  of  their  prey,  and  are  not  molested  unless  caught  in  the 
very  act  of  robbery." 

The  Englishman  gave  another  shrug,  but  with  a  different 
expression. 

' '  Well,  sir,  I  fixed  my  eye  on  this  daring  wolf  thus  prowling 
through  the  fold,  and  saw  him  enter  a  church.  I  was  curious 
to  witness  his  devotions.  You  know  our  spacious,  magnificent 
churches.  The  one  in  which  he  entered  was  vast  and  shrouded 
in  the  dusk  of  evening.  At  the  extremity  of  the  long  aisles  a 
couple  of  tapers  feebly  glimmered  on  the  grand  altar.  In  one 
of  the  side  chapels  was  a  votive  candle  placed  before  the  image 
of  a  saint.  Before  this  image  the  robber  had  prostrated  him 
self.  His  mantle  partly  falling  off  from  his  shoulders  as  he 
knelt,  revealed  a  form  of  Herculean  strength ;  a  stiletto  and 


170  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

pistol  glittered  in  his  belt,  and  the  light  falling  on  his  counten 
ance  showed  features  not  unhandsome,  but  strongly  and  fiercely 
charactered.  As  he  prayed  he  became  vehemently  agitated ;  his 
lips  quivered;  sighs  and  murmurs,  almost  groans  burst  from 
him ;  he  beat  his  breast  with  violence,  then  clasped  his  hands 
and  wrung  them  convulsively  as  he  extended  them  towards  the 
image.  Never  had  I  seen  such  a  terrific  picture  of  remorse. 
I  felt  fearful  of  being  discovered  by  him,  and  withdrew. 
Shortly  after  I  saw  him  issue  from  the  church  wrapped  in 
his  mantle ;  he  recrossed  the  square,  and  no  doubt  returned  to 
his  mountain  with  disburthened  conscience,  ready  to  incur  a 
fresh  arrear  of  crime." 

The  conversation  was  here  taken  up  by  two  other  travellers, 
recently  arrived,  Mr.  Hobbs  and  Mr.  Dobbs,  a  linen-draper 
and  a  green-grocer,  just  returning  from  a  tour  in  Greece  and 
the  Holy  Land :  and  who  were  full  of  the  story  of  Alderman 
Popkins.  They  were  astonished  that  the  robbers  should  dare 
to  molest  a  man  of  his  importance  on  'change ;  he  being  an  emi 
nent  dry-salter  of  Throgmorton  street,  and  a  magistrate  to 
boot. 

In  fact,  the  story  of  the  Popkins  family  was  but  too  true;  it 
was  attested  by  too  many  present  to  be  for  a  moment  doubted ; 
and  from  the  contradictory  and  concordant  testimony  of  half 
a  score,  all  eager  to  relate  it,  the  company  were  enabled  to 
make  out  all  the  particulars. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  POPKINS  FAMILY. 

IT  was  but  a  few  days  before  that  the  carriage  of  Alderman 
Popkins  had  driven  up  to  the  inn  of  Terracina.  Those  who 
have  seen  an  English  family  carriage  on  the  continent,  must 
know  the  sensation  it  produces.  It  is  an  epitome  of  England ; 
a  little  morsel  of  the  old  island  rolling  about  the  world— every 
thing  so  compact,  so  snug,  so  finished  and  fitting.  The  wheels 
that  roll  on  patent  axles  without  rattling ;  the  body  that  hangs 
so  well  on  its  springs,  yielding  to  every  motion,  yet  proof 
against  every  shock.  The  ruddy  faces  gaping  out  of  the  win 
dows;  sometimes  of  a  portly  old  citizen,  sometimes  of  a  vol 
uminous  dowager,  and  sometimes  of  a  fine  fresh  hoyden,  just 
from  boarding  school  And  then  the  dickeys  loaded  with  well- 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  POPKINS  FAMILY.     171 

dressed  servants,  beef -fed  and  bluff ;  looking  down  from  theii 
heights  with  contempt  on  all  the  world  around ;  profoundly 
ignorant  of  the  country  and  the  people,  and  devoutly  certain 
that  every  thing  not  English  must  be  wrong. 

Such  was  the  carriage  of  Alderman  Popkins,  as  it  made  its 
appearance  at  Terracina.  The  courier  who  had  preceded  it,  to 
order  horses,  and  who  was  a  Neapolitan,  had  given  a  magnifi 
cent  account  of  the  riches  and  greatness  of  his  master,  blunder 
ing  with  all  an  Italian's  splendor  of  imagination  about  the  alder 
man's  titles  and  dignities ;  the  host  had  added  his  usual  share 
of  exaggeration,  so  that  by  the  tune  the  alderman  drove  up  to 
the  door,  he  was  Milor — Magnifico — Principe — the  Lord  knows 
what! 

The  alderman  was  advised  to  take  an  escort  to  Fondi  and 
Itri,  but  he  refused.  It  was  as  much  as  a  man's  life  was  worth, 
he  said,  to  stop  him  on  the  king's  highway ;  he  would  complain 
of  it  to  the  ambassador  at  Naples ;  he  would  make  a  national 
affair  of  it.  The  principezza  Popkins,  a  fresh,  motherly  dame, 
seemed  perfectly  secure  in  the  protection  of  her  husband,  so 
omnipotent  a  man  in  the  city.  The  signorini  Popkins,  two  fine 
bouncing  girls,  looked  to  their  brother  Tom,  who  had  taken 
lessons  in  boxing ;  and  as  to  the  dandy  himself,  he  was  sure  no 
scaramouch  of  an  Italian  robber  would  dare  to  meddle  with  an 
Englishman.  The  landlord  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
out  the  palms  of  his  hands  with  a  true  Italian  grimace,  and  the 
carriage  of  Milor  Popkins  rolled  on. 

They  passed  through  several  very  suspicious  places  without 
any  molestation.  The  Misses  Popkins,  who  were  very  roman 
tic,  and  had  learnt  to  draw  in  water  colors,  were  enchanted 
with  the  savage  scenery  around ;  it  was  so  like  what  they  had 
read  in  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  romances,  they  should  like  of  all  things 
to  make  sketches.  At  length,  the  carriage  arrived  at  a  place 
where  the  road  wound  up  a  long  hill.  Mrs.  Popkins  had  sunk 
into  a  sleep ;  the  young  ladies  were  reading  the  last  works  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Lord  Byron,  and  the  dandy  was  hectoring 
the  postilions  from  the  coach  box.  The  Alderman  got  out,  as 
he  said,  to  stretch  his  legs  up  the  hill.  It  was  a  long  winding 
ascent,  and  obliged  him  every  now  and  then  to  stop  and  blow 
and  wipe  his  forehead  with  many  a  pish!  and  phew!  being 
rather  pursy  and  short  of  wind.  As  the  carriage,  however,  was 
far  behind  him,  and  toiling  slowly  under  the  weight  of  so  many 
well-stuffed  trunks  and  well-stuffed  travellers,  he  had  plenty  of 
time  to  walk  at  leisure. 


172  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

On  a  jutting  point  of  rock  that  overhung  the  road  nearly  at 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  just  where  the  route  began  again  to 
descend,  he  saw  a  solitary  man  seated,  who  appeared  to  be 
tending  goats.  Alderman  Popkins  was  one  of  your  shrewd 
travellers  that  always  like  to  be  picking  up  small  information 
along  the  road,  so  he  thought  he'd  just  scramble  up  to  the 
honest  man,  and  have  a  little  talk  with  him  by  way  of  learning 
the  news  and  getting  a  lesson  in  Italian.  As  he  drew  near  to 
the  peasant  he  did  not  half  like  his  looks.  He  was  partly  re 
clining  on  the  rocks  wrapped  in  the  usual  long  mantle,  which, 
with  his  slouched  hat,  only  loft  a  part  of  a  swarthy  visage, 
with  a  keen  black  eye,  a  beetle  brow,  and  a  fierce  moustache  to 
be  seen.  He  had  whistled  several  times  to  his  dog  which  was 
roving  about  the  side  of  the  hill.  As  the  Alderman  approached 
he  rose  and  greeted  him.  When  standing  erect  he  seemed 
almost  gigantic,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  Alderman  Popkins ;  who, 
however,  being  a  short  man,  might  be  deceived. 

The  latter  would  gladly  now  have  been  back  in  the  carriage, 
or  even  on  'change  in  London,  for  he  was  by  no  means  well 
pleased  with  his  company.  However,  he  determined  to  put  the 
best  face  on  matters,  and  was  beginning  a  conversation  about 
the  state  of  the  weather,  the  baddishness  of  the  crops,  and  the 
price  of  goats  in  that  part  of  the  country,  when  he  heard  a  vio 
lent  screaming.  He  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and,  looking 
over,  saw  away  down  the  road  his  carriage  surrounded  by  rob 
bers.  One  held  down  the  fat  footman,  another  had  the  dandy 
by  his  starched  cravat,  with  a  pistol  to  his  head ;  one  was  rum 
maging  a  portmanteau,  another  rummaging  the  principezza's 
pockets,  while  the  two  Misses  Popkins  were  screaming  from 
each  window  of  the  carriage,  and  their  waiting  maid  squalling 
from  the  dickey. 

Alderman  Popkins  felt  all  the  fury  of  the  parent  and  the 
magistrate  roused  within  him.  He  grasped  his  cane  and  was 
on  the  point  of  scrambling  down  the  rocks,  either  to  assault 
the  robbers  or  to  read  the  riot  act,  when  he  was  suddenly 
grasped  by  the  arm.  It  was  by  his  friend  the  goatherd,  whose 
cloak,  falling  partly  off,  discovered  a  belt  stuck  full  of  pistols 
and  stilettos.  In  short,  he  found  himself  in  the  clutches  of  the 
captain  of  the  band,  who  had  stationed  himself  on  the  rock  to 
look  out  for  travellers  and  to  give  notice  to  his  men. 

A  sad  ransacking  took  place.  Trunks  were  turned  inside 
out,  and  all  the  finery  and  the  frippery  of  the  Popkins  family 
Bcattered  about  the  road.  Such  a  chaos  of  Venice  beads  and 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  POPKINS  FAMILY.      173 

Roman  mosaics ;  and  Paris  bonnets  of  the  young  ladies,  min 
gled  with,  the  alderman's  night-caps  and  lamb's  wool  stockings, 
and  the  dandy's  hair-brushes,  stays,  and  starched  cravats. 

The  gentlemen  were  eased  of  their  purses  and  their  watches ; 
the  ladies  of  their  jewels,  and  the  whole  party  were  on  the 
point  of  being  carried  up  into  the  mountain,  when  fortunately 
the  appearance  of  soldiery  at  a  distance  obliged  the  robbers  to 
make  off  with  the  spoils  they  had  secured,  and  leave  the  Pop- 
kins  family  to  gather  together  the  remnants  of  their  effects, 
and  make  the  best  of  their  way  to  Fondi. 

When  safe  arrived,  the  alderman  made  a  terrible  blustering 
at  the  inn ;  threatened  to  complain  to  the  ambassador  at  Naples, 
and  was  ready  to  shake  his  cane  at  the  whole  country.  The 
dandy  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  his  scuffles  with  the  brigands, 
who  overpowered  him  merely  by  numbers.  As  to  the  Misses 
Popkins,  they  were  quite  delighted  with  the  adventure,  and 
were  occupied  the  whole  evening  in  writing  it  in  their  journals. 
They  declared  the  captain  of  the  band  to  be  a  most  romantic- 
looking  man;  they  dared  to  say  some  unfortunate  lover,  or 
exiled  nobleman:  and  several  of  the  band  to  be  very  handsome 
young  men — "quite  picturesque!" 

"In  verity","  said  mine  host  of  Terracina,  "they  say  the  cap 
tain  of  the  band  is  un  galant  worao." 

' '  A  gallant  man ! "  said  the  Englishman.  ' '  I'd  have  your  gal 
lant  man  hang'd  like  a  dog ! " 

"To  dare  to  meddle  with  Englishmen! "  said  Mr.  Hobbs. 

"And  such  a  family  as  the  Popkinses! "  said  Mr.  Dobbs. 

"They  ought  to  come  upon  the  country  for  damages!"  said 
Mr.  Hobbs. 

"Our  ambassador  should  make  a  complaint  to  the  govern 
ment  of  Naples,"  said  Mr.  Dobbs. 

"They  should  be  requested  to  drive  these  rascals -out  of  the 
country,"  said  Hobbs. 

"If  they  did  not,  we  should  declare  war  against  them!"  said 
Dobbs. 

The  Englishman  was  a  little  wearied  by  this  story,  and  by 
the  ultra  zeal  of  his  countrymen,  and  was  glad  when  a  sum 
mons  to  their  supper  relieved  him  from  a  crowd  of  travellers. 
He  walked  out  with  his  Venetian  friends  and  a  young  French 
man  of  an  interesting  demeanor,  who  had  become  sociable  with 
them  in  the  course  of  the  conversation.  They  directed  their 
steps  toward  the  sea,  which  was  lit  up  by  the  rising  moon. 
The  Venetian,  out  of  politeness,  left  his  beautiful  wife  to  be  es- 


174  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER 

corted  by  the  Englishman.  The  latter,  however,  either  from 
shyness  or  reserve,  did  not  avail  himself  of  the  civility,  but 
walked  on  without  offering  his  arm.  The  fair  Venetian,  with 
all  her  devotion  to  her  husband,  was  a  little  nettled  at  a  want 
of  gallantry  to  which  her  charms  had  rendered  her  unaccus 
tomed,  and  took  the  proffered  arm  of  the  Frenchman  with  a 
pretty  air  of  pique,  which,  however,  was  entirely  lost  upon  the 
phlegmatic  delinquent. 

Not  far  distant  from  the  inn  they  came  to  where  there  was  a 
body  of  soldiers  on  the  beach,  encircling  and  guarding  a  num 
ber  of  galley  slaves,  who  were  permitted  to  refresh  themselves 
in  the  evening  breeze,  and  to  sport  and  roll  upon  the  sand. 

"It  was  difficult,"  the  Frenchman  observed,  "to  conceive  a 
more  frightful  mass  of  crime  than  was  here  collected.  The 
parricide,  the  fratricide,  the  infanticide,  who  had  first  fled  from 
justice  and  turned  mountain  bandit,  and  then,  by  betraying  his 
brother  desperadoes,  had  bought  a  commutation  of  punishment, 
and  the  privilege  of  wallowing  on  the  shore  for  an  hour  a  day, 
with  this  wretched  crew  of  miscreants !" 

The  remark  of  the  Frenchman  had  a  strong  effect  upon  the 
company,  particularly  upon  the  Venetian  lady,  who  shuddered 
as  she  cast  a  timid  look  at  this  horde  of  wretches  at  their 
evening  relaxation.  "They  seemed,"  she  said,  "like  so  many 
serpents,  wreathing  and  twisting  together." 

The  Frenchman  now  adverted  to  the  stories  they  had  been 
listening  to  at  the  inn,  adding,  that  if  they  had  any  further 
curiosity  on  the  subject,  he  could  recount  an  adventure  which 
happened  to  himself  among  the  robbers  and  which  might  give 
them  some  idea  of  the  habits  and  manners  of  tihose  beings. 
There  was  an  air  of  modesty  and  frankness  about  the  French 
man  which  had  gained  the  good- will  of  the  whole  party,  not 
even  excepting  the  Englishman.  They  all  gladly  accepted  his 
proposition ;  and  as  they  strolled  slowly  up  and  down  the  sea 
shore,  he  related  the  following  adventure. 


THE  PAINTER'S  ADVENTURE. 

I  AM  an  historical  painter  by  profession,  and  resided  for 
eome  time  in  the  family  of  a  foreign  prince,  at  his  villa,  about 
fifteen  miles  from  Rome,  among  some  of  the  most  interesting 
scenery  of  Italy.  It  is  situated  on  the  heights  of  ancient  Tus- 


THE  PAINTERS  ADVENTURE.  175 

culum.  In  its  neighborhood  are  the  ruins  of  the  villas  of 
Cicero,  Sylla,  Lucullus,  Rufinus,  and  other  illustrious  Romans, 
who  sought  refuge  here  occasionally,  from  their  toils,  in  the 
bosom  of  a  soft  and  luxurious  repose.  From  the  midst  of  de 
lightful  bowers,  refreshed  by  the  pure  mountain  breeze,  the 
eye  looks  over  a  romantic  landscape  full  of  poetical  and  histor 
ical  associations.  The  Albanian  mountains,  Tivoli,  once  the 
favorite  residence  of  Horace  and  Maecenas ;  the  vast  deserted 
Campagna  with  the  Tiber  running  through  it,  and  St.  Peter's 
dome  swelling  in  the  midst,  the  monument — as  it  were,  over 
the  grave  of  ancient  Rome. 

I  assisted  the  prince  in  the  researches  he  was  making  among 
the  classic  ruins  of  his  vicinity.  His  exertions  were  highly 
successful.  Many  wrecks  of  admirable  statues  and  fragments 
of  exquisite  sculpture  were  dug  up;  monuments  of  the  taste 
and  magnificence  that  reigned  in  the  ancient  Tusculan  abodes. 
He  had  studded  his  villa  and  its  grounds  with  statues,  relievos, 
vases,  and  sarcophagi ;  thus  retrieved  from  the  bosom  of  the 
earth. 

The  mode  of  lif e  pursued  at  the  villa  was  delightfully  serene, 
diversified  by  interesting  occupations  and  elegant  leisure. 
Every  one  passed  the  day  according  to  his  pleasure  or  occupa 
tion  ;  and  we  all  assembled  in  a  cheerful  dinner  party  at  sun 
set.  It  was  on  the  fourth  of  November,  a  beautiful  serene  day, 
that  we  had  assembled  in  the  saloon  at  the  sound  of  the  first 
dinner-bell.  The  family  were  surprised  at  the  absence  of  the 
prince's  confessor.  They  waited  for  him  in  vain,  and  at  length 
placed  themselves  at  table.  They  first  attributed  his  absence 
to  his  having  prolonged  his  customary  walk ;  and  the  first  part 
of  the  dinner  passed  without  any  uneasiness.  When  the  des 
sert  was  served,  however,  without  his  making  his  appearance, 
they  began  to  feel  anxious.  They  feared  he  might  have  been 
taken  ill  in  some  alley  of  the  woods ;  or,  that  he  might  have 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  robbers.  At  the  interval  of  a  small 
valley  rose  the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi,  the  strong-hold  of 
banditti.  Indeed,  the  neighborhood  had,  for  some  time,  been 
infested  by  them ;  and  Barbone,  a  notorious  bandit  chief,  had 
often  been  met  prowling  about  the  solitudes  of  Tusculum.  The 
daring  enterprises  of  these  ruffians  were  well  known ;  the  ob 
jects  of  their  cupidity  or  vengeance  were  insecure  even  in 
palaces.  As  yet  they  had  respected  the  possessions  '  of  the 
prince ;  but  the  idea  of  such  dangerous  spirits  hovering  about 
the  neighborhood  was  sufficient  to  occasion  alarm. 


176  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

The  fears  of  the  company  increased  as  evening  closed  in 
The  prince  ordered  out  forest  guards,  and  domestics  •with  flam 
beaux  to  search  for  the  confessor.  They  had  not  departed  long, 
when  a  slight  noise  was  heard  in  the  corridor  of  the  ground 
floor.  The  family  were  dining  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  re 
maining  domestics  were  occupied  in  attendance.  There  waa 
no  one  on  the  ground  floor  at  this  moment  but  the  house 
keeper,  the  laundress,  and  three  field  laborers,  who  were  rest 
ing  themselves  and  conversing  with  the  women. 

I  heard  the  noise  from  below,  and  presuming  it  to  be  occa 
sioned  by  the  return  of  the  absentee,  I  left  the  table,  and  has 
tened  down  stairs,  eager  to  gain  intelligence  that  might  relievo 
the  anxiety  of  the  prince  and  princess.  I  had  scarcely  reached 
the  last  step,  when  I  beheld  before  me  a  man  dressed  as  a  ban 
dit  ;  a  carbine  in  his  hand,  and  a  stiletto  and  pistols  in  his  belt. 
His  countenance  had  a  mingled  expression  of  ferocity  and 
trepidation.  He  sprang  upon  me,  and  exclaimed  exultingly, 
"Ecco  il  principe!" 

I  saw  at  once  into  what  hands  I  had  fallen,  but  endeavored 
to  summon  up  coolness  and  presence  of  mind.  A  glance  to 
wards  the  lower  end  of  the  corridor  showed  me  several  ruffians, 
clothed  and  armed  in  the  same  manner  with  the  one  who  had 
seized  me.  They  were  guarding  the  two  females  and  the  field 
laborers.  The  robber,  who  held  me  firmly  by  the  collar,  de 
manded  repeatedly  whether  or  not  I  were  the  prince.  His 
object  evidently  was  to  carry  off  the  prince,  and  extort  an  im 
mense  ransom.  He  was  enraged  at  receiving  none  but  vague 
replies ;  for  I  felt  the  importance  of  misleading  him. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  me  how  I  might  extricate  myself 
from  his  clutches.  I  was  unarmed,  it  is  true,  but  I  was  vigor 
ous.  His  companions  were  at  a  distance.  By  a  sudden  exer 
tion  I  might  wrest  myself  from  him  and  spring  up  the  staircase, 
whither  he  would  not  dare  to  follow  me  singly.  The  idea  was 
put  in  execution  as  soon  as  conceived.  The  ruffian's  throat 
was  bare :  with  my  right  hand  I  seized  him  by  it,  just  between 
the  mastoides ;  with  my  left  hand  I  grasped  the  arm  which 
held  the  carbine.  The  suddenness  of  my  attack  took  him  com 
pletely  unawares;  and  the  strangling  nature  of  my  grasp 
paralyzed  him.  He  choked  and  faltered.  I  felt  his  hand  relax 
ing  its  hold,  and  was  on  the  point  of  jerking  myself  away  and 
darting  up  the  staircase  before  he  could  recover  himself,  when 
I  was  suddenly  seized  by  some  one  from  behind. 

I  had  to  let  go  my  grasp.    The  bandit,  once  more  released 


THE  PAINTER'S  ADVENTURE.  177 

fell  upon  me  with  fury,  and  gave  me  several  blows  with  the 
butt  end  of  his  carbine,  one  of  which  wounded  me  severely  in 
the  forehead,  and  covered  me  with  blood.  He  took  advantage 
of  my  being  stunned  to  rifle  me  of  my  watch  and  whatever 
valuables  I  had  about  my  person. 

When  I  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  blow,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  chief  of  the  banditti,  who  exclaimed  "Quello  e  il 
principe,  siamo  contente,  audiamo !"  (It  is  the  prince,  enough, 
let  us  be  off.)  The  band  immediately  closed  round  me  and 
dragged  me  out  of  the  palace,  bearing  off  the  three  laborers 
likewise. 

I  had  no  hat  on,  and  the  blood  was  flowing  from  my  wound ; 
I  managed  to  staunch  it,  however,  with  my  pocket-handker 
chief,  which  I  bound  round  my  forehead.  The  captain  of  the 
band  conducted  me  in  triumph,  supposing  me  to  be  the  prince. 
We  had  gone  some  distance  before  he  learnt  his  mistake  from 
one  of  the  laborers.  His  rage  was  terrible.  It  was  too  late  to 
return  to  the  villa  and  endeavor  to  retrieve  his  error,  for  by 
this  time  the  alarm  must  have  been  given,  and  every  one  in 
arms.  He  darted  at  me  a  furious  look ;  swore  I  had  deceived 
him,  and  caused  him  to  miss  his  fortune ;  and  told  me  to  pre 
pare  for  death.  The  rest  of  the  robbers  were  equally  furious. 
I  saw  their  hands  upon  their  poinards ;  and  I  knew  that  death 
was  seldom  an  empty  menace  with  these  ruffians. 

The  laborers  saw  the  peril  into  which  their  information  had 
betrayed  me,  and  eagerly  assured  the  captain  that  I  was  » 
man  for  whom  the  prince  would  pay  a  great  ransom.  This 
produced  a  pause.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  say  that  I  had  beei> 
much  dismayed  by  their  menaces.  I  mean  not  to  make  any 
boast  of  courage ;  but  I  have  been  so  schooled  to  hardship  dur 
ing  the  late  revolutions,  and  have  beheld  death  around  me  i» 
so  many  perilous  and  disastrous  scenes  that  I  have  become,  in 
some  measure  callous  to  its  terrors.  The  frequent  hazard  ot 
life  makes  a  man  at  length  as  reckless  of  it  as  a  gambler  of  his 
money.  To  their  threat  of  death,  I  replied :  ' '  That  the  sooner 
it  was  executed,  the  better."  This  reply  seemed  to  astonish 
the  captain,  and  the  prospect  of  ransom  held  out  by  the  laborers, 
had,  no  doubt,  a  still  greater  effect  on  him.  He  considered 
for  a  moment ;  assumed  a  calmer  manner,  and  made  a  sign  to 
his  companions,  who  had  remained  waiting  for  my  death  war 
rant.  "Forward,"  said  he,  "  we  will  see  about,  this  matter  by 
and  bye." 

We  descended  rapidly  towards  the  road  of  la  Molara,  which 


178  TALES  Off  A   TEA  VELLBR. 

leads  to  Rocca  Priori.  In  the  midst  of  tliis  road  is  a  solitary 
inn.  The  captain  ordered  the  troop  to  halt  at  the  distance  of  a 
pistol  shot  from  it ;  and  enjoined  profound  silence.  He  then 
approached  the  threshold  alone  with  noiseless  steps.  He 
examined  the  outside  of  the  door  very  narrowly,  and  then 
returning  precipitately,  made  a  sign  for  the  troop  to  continue 
its  march  in  silence.  It  has  since  been  ascertained  that  this 
was  one  of  those  infamous  inns  which  are  the  secret  resorts  of 
banditti.  The  innkeeper  had  an  understanding  with  the  cap 
tain,  as  he  most  probably  had  with  the  chiefs  of  the  different 
bands.  When  any  of  the  patroles  and  gens  d'armes  were 
quartered  at  his  house,  the  brigands  were  warned  of  it  by  a 
preconcerted  signal  on  the  door;  when  there  was  no  such 
signal,  they  might  enter  with  safety  and  be  sure  of  welcome. 
Many  an  isolated  inn  among  the  lonely  parts  of  the  Roman 
territories,  and  especially  on  the  skirts  of  the  mountains,  have 
the  same  dangerous  and  suspicious  character.  They  are 
places  where  the  banditti  gather  information ;  where  they  con 
cert  their  plans,  and  where  the  unwary  traveller,  remote  from 
hearing  or  assistance,  is  sometimes  betrayed  to  the  stiletto  of 
the  midnight  murderer. 

After  pursuing  our  road  a  little  farther,  we  struck  off  towards 
the  woody  mountains  which  envelope  Rocca  Priori.  Our 
march  was  long  and  painful,  with  many  circuits  and  windings; 
at  length  we  clambered  a  steep  ascent,  covered  with  a  thick 
forest,  and  when  we  had  reached  the  centre,  I  was  told  to  seat 
myself  on  the  earth.  No  sooner  had  I  done  so,  than  at  a  sign 
from  their  chief,  the  robbers  surrounded  me,  and  spreading 
their  great  cloaks  from  one  to  the  other,  formed  a  kind  of 
pavilion  of  mantles,  to  which  their  bodies  might  be  said  to 
seem  as  columns.  The  captain  then  struck  a  light,  and  a  flam 
beau  was  lit  immediately.  The  mantles  were  extended  to 
prevent  the  light  of  the  flambeau  from  being  seen  through  the 
forest.  Anxious  as  was  my  situation,  I  could  not  look  round 
upon  this  screen  of  dusky  drapery,  relieved  by  the  bright 
colors  of  the  robbers'  under-dresses,  the  gleaming  of  theii 
weapons,  and  the  variety  of  strong-marked  countenances,  lit 
up  by  the  flambeau,  without  admiring  the  picturesque  effect  ot 
the  scene.  It  was  quite  theatrical. 

The  captain  now  held  an  ink-horn,  and  giving  me  pen  ancl 
paper,  ordered  me  to  write  what  he  should  dictate.  I  obeyed. 
Il;  was  a  demand,  couched  in  tne  style  of  robber  eloquence, 
41  that  the  prince  should  send  three  thousand  dollars  for  my  ran- 


THE  PAINTER'S  ADVENTURE.  179 

som,  or  that  my  death  should  be  the  consequence  of  a  re 
fusal." 

I  knew  enough  of  the  desperate  character  of  these  beings  to 
feel  assured  this  was  not  an  idle  menace.  Their  only  mode  of 
insuring  attention  to  their  demands,  is  to  make  the  infliction 
of  the  penalty  inevitable.  I  saw  at  once,  however,  that  the 
demand  was  preposterous,  and  made  in  improper  language. 

I  told  the  captain  so,  and  assured  him,  that  so  extrava 
gant  a  sum  would  never  be  granted;  that  I  was  neither 
friend  or  relative  of  the  prince,  but  a  mere  artist,  employed  to 
execute  certain  paintings.  That  I  had  nothing  to  offer  as  a 
ransom  but  the  price  of  my  labors ;  if  this  were  not  sufficient, 
my  lif  e  was  at  their  disposal :  it  was  a  thing  on  which  I  sat  but 
little  value." 

I  was  the  more  hardy  in  my  reply,  because  I  saw  that  coolness 
and  hardihood  had  an  effect  upon  the  robbers.  It  is  true,  as  I 
finished  speaking  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  stiletto, 
but  he  restrained  himself,  and  snatching  the  letter,  folded  it, 
and  ordered  me,  in  a  peremptory  tone,  to  address  it  to  the 
prince.  He  then  despatched  one  of  the  laborers  with  it  to 
Tusculum,  who  promised  to  return  with  all  possible  speed. 

The  robbers  now  prepared  themselves  for  sleep,  and  I  was 
told  that  I  might  do  the  same.  They  spread  their  great  cloaks 
on  the  ground,  and  lay  down  around  me.  One  was  stationed 
at  a  little  distance  to  keep  watch,  and  was  relieved  every  two 
hours.  The  strangeness  and  wildness  of  this  mountain  bivouac, 
among  lawless  beings  whose  hands  seemed  ever  ready  to  grasp 
the  stiletto,  and  with  whom  life  was  so  trivial  and  insecure, 
was  enough  to  banish  repose.  The  coldness  of  the  earth  and 
of  the  dew,  however,  had  a  still  greater  effect  than  mental 
causes  in  disturbing  my  rest.  The  airs  wafted  to  these  moun 
tains  from  the  distant  Mediterranean  diffused  a  great  chilliness 
as  the  night  advanced.  An  expedient  suggested  itself.  I 
called  one  of  my  fellow  prisoners,  the  laborers,  and  made  him 
he  down  beside  me.  Whenever  one  of  my  limbs  became  chilled 
I  approached  it  to  the  robust  limb  of  my  neighbor,  and  bor 
rowed  some  of  his  warmth.  In  this  way  I  was  able  to  obtain  a 
little  sleep. 

Day  at  length  dawned,  and  I  was  roused  from  my  slumber 
by  the  voice  of  the  chieftain.  He  desired  me  to  rise  and  follow 
him.  I  obeyed.  On  considering  his  physiognomy  attentively, 
it  appeared  a  little  softened.  He  even  assisted  me  in  scramb 
ling  up  the  steep  forest  among  rocks  and  brambles.  Habit  had 


180  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

made  him  a  vigorous  mountaineer ;  but  I  found  it  excessively 
toilsome  to  climb  those  rugged  heights.  We  arrived  at  length 
at  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 

Here  it  was  that  I  felt  all  the  enthusiasm  of  my  art  suddenly 
awakened ;  and  I  forgot,  in  an  instant,  all  perils  and  fatigues 
at  this  magnificent  view  of  the  sunrise  in  the  midst  of  the 
mountains  of  Abruzzi.  It  was  on  these  heights  that  Hannibal 
first  pitched  his  camp,  and  pointed  out  Rome  to  his  followers. 
The  eye  embraces  a  vast  extent  of  country.  The  minor  height 
of  Tusculum,  with  its  villas,  and  its  sacred  ruins,  lie  below ; 
the  Sabine  hills  and  the  Albanian  mountains  stretch  on  either 
hand,  and  beyond  Tusculum  and  Frescati  spreads  out  the 
immense  Campagna,  with  its  line  of  tombs,  and  here  and  there 
a  broken  aqueduct  stretching  across  it,  and  the  towers  and 
domes  of  the  eternal  city  in  the  midst. 

Fancy  this  scene  lit  up  by  the  glories  of  a  rising  sun,  and 
bursting  upon  my  sight,  as  I  looked  forth  from  among  the 
majestic  forests  of  the  Abruzzi.  Fancy,  too,  the  savage  fore 
ground,  made  still  more  savage  by  groups  of  the  banditti, 
armed  and  dressed  in  their  wild,  picturesque  manner,  and  you 
will  not  wonder  that  the  enthusiasm  of  a  painter  for  a  moment 
overpowered  all  his  other  feelings. 

The  banditti  were  astonished  at  my  admiration  of  a  scene 
which  familiarity  had  made  so  common  in  their  eyes.  I  took 
advantage  of  their  halting  at  this  spot,  drew  forth  a  quire  of 
drawing-paper,  and  began  to  sketch  the  features  of  the  land 
scape.  The  height,  on  which  I  was  seated,  was  wild  and 
solitary,  separated  from  the  ridge  of  Tusculum  by  a  valley 
nearly  three  miles  wide;  though  the  distance  appeared  less 
from  the  purity  of  the  atmosphere.  This  height  was  one  of  the 
favorite  retreats  of  the  banditti,  commanding  a  look-out  over 
the  country;  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  covered  with 
forests,  and  distant  from  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

While  I  was  sketching,  my  attention  was  called  off  for  a 
moment  by  the  cries  of  birds  and  the  bleatings  of  sheep.  I 
looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  of  the  animals  that 
uttered  them.  They  were  repeated,  and  appeared  to  come 
from  the  summits  of  the  trees.  On  looking  more  narrowly,  I 
perceived  six  of  the  robbers  perched  on  the  tops  of  oaks,  which 
grew  on  the  breezy  crest  of  the  mountain,  and  commanded  an 
uninterrupted  prospect.  From  hence  they  were  keeping  a 
look-out,  like  so  many  vultures;  casting  their  eyes  into  the 
depths  of  the  valley  below  us;  communicating  with  each  other 


THE  PAINTER'S  ADVENTURE.  181 

by  signs,  or  holding  discourse  in  sounds,  which  might  be  mis 
taken  by  the  wsyfarer  for  the  cries  of  hawks  and  crows,  or 
the  bleating  of  the  mountain  flocks.  After  they  had  recon 
noitred  the  neighborhood,  and  finished  their  singular  discourse, 
they  descended  from  their  airy  perch,  and  returned  to  their 
prisoners.  The  captain  posted  three  of  them  at  three  naked 
sides  of  the  mountain,  while  he  remained  to  guard  us  with 
what  appeared  his  most  trusty  companion. 

I  had  my  book  of  sketches  in  my  hand ;  he  requested  to  see 
it,  and  after  having  run  his  eye  over  it,  expressed  himself  con 
vinced  of  the  truth  of  my  assertion,  that  I  was  a  painter.  1 
thought  I  saw  a  gleam  of  good  feeling  dawning  in  him,  and 
determined  to  avail  myself  of  it.  I  knew  that  the  worst  of 
men  have  their  good  points  and  their  accessible  sides,  if  one 
would  but  study  them  carefully.  Indeed,  there  is  a  singular 
mixture  in  the  character  of  the  Italian  robber.  With  reckless 
ferocity,  he  often  mingles  traits  of  kindness  and  good  humor. 
He  is  often  not  radically  bad,  but  driven  to  his  course  of  life 
by  some  unpremeditated  crime,  the  effect  of  those  sudden 
bursts  of  passion  to  which  the  Italian  temperament  is  prone. 
This  has  compelled  him  to  take  to  the  mountains,  or,  as  it  is 
technically  termed  among  them,  "andare  in  Campagna."  He 
has  become  a  robber  by  profession;  but  like  a  soldier,  when 
not  in  action,  he  can  lay  aside  his  weapon  and  his  fierceness, 
and  become  like  other  men. 

I  took  occasion  from  the  observations  of  the  captain  on  my 
sketchings,  to  fall  into  conversation  with  him.  I  found  him 
sociable  and  communicative.  By  degrees  I  became  completely 
at  my  ease  with  him.  I  had  fancied  I  perceived  about  him  a 
degree  of  self-love,  which  I  determined  to  make  use  of.  I 
assumed  an  air  of  careless  frankness,  and  told  him  that,  as 
artist,  I  pretended  to  the  power  of  judging  of  the  physiognomy ; 
that  I  thought  I  perceived  something  in  his  features  and  de 
meanor  which  announced  him  worthy  of  higher  fortunes. 
That  he  was  not  formed  to  exercise  the  profession  to  which  he 
had  abandoned  himself ;  that  he  had  talents  and  qualities  fitted 
for  a  nobler  sphere  of  action ;  that  he  had  but  to  change  his 
course  of  life,  and  in  a  legitimate  career,  the  same  courage  and 
endowments  which  now  made  him  an  object  of  terror,  would 
ensure  him  the  applause  and  admiration  of  society. 

I  had  not  mistaken  my  man.  My  discourse  both  touched 
and  excited  him.  He  seized  my  hand,  pressed  it,  and  replied 
with  strong  emotion,  "You  have  guessed  the  truth;  you  have 


182  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

judged  me  rightly."  He  remained  for  a  moment  sflent;  then 
with  a  kind  of  effort  he  resumed.  "I  will  tell  you  some  par 
ticulars  of  my  life,  and  you  will  perceive  that  it  was  the 
oppression  of  others,  rather  than  rny  own  crimes,  that  drove 
me  to  the  mountains.  I  sought  to  serve  my  fellow-men,  and 
they  have  persecuted  me  from  among  them."  We  seated  our 
selves  on  the  grass,  and  the  robber  gave  me  the  following 
anecdotes  of  his  history. 


THE  STOEY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN. 

I  AM  a  native  of  the  village  of  Prossedi.  My  father  was  easy 
enough  in  circumstances,  and  we  lived  peaceably  and  inde 
pendently,  cultivating  our  fields.  All  went  on  well  with  us 
until  a  new  chief  of  the  sbirri  was  sent  to  our  village  to  take 
command  of  the  police.  He  was  an  arbitrary  fellow,  prying 
into  every  thing,  and  practising  all  sorts  of  vexations  and 
oppressions  in  the  discharge  of  his  office. 

I  was  at  that  time  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  had  a  natural 
love  of  justice  and  good  neighborhood.  I  had  also  a  little 
education,  and  knew  something  of  history,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
judge  a  little  of  men  and  their  actions.  All  this  inspired  me 
with  hatred  for  this  paltry  despot.  My  own  family,  also, 
became  the  object  of  his  suspicion  or  dislike,  and  felt  more 
than  once  the  arbitrary  abuse  of  his  power.  These  things 
worked  together  on  my  mind,  and  I  gasped  after  vengeance. 
My  character  was  always  ardent  and  energetic;  and  acted 
upon  by  my  love  of  justice,  determined  me  by  one  blow  to  rid 
the  country  of  the  tyrant. 

Full  of  my  project  I  rose  one  morning  before  peep  of  day, 
and  concealing  a  stiletto  under  my  waistcoat — here  you  see  it ! 
— (and  he  drew  forth  a  long  keen  poniard)— I  lay  in  wait  for 
him  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  I  knew  all  his  haunts,  and 
his  habit  of  making  his  rounds  and  prowling  about  like  a  wolf, 
in  the  gray  of  the  morning;  at  length  I  met  him  and  attacked 
him  with  fury.  He  was  armed,  but  I  took  him  unawares,  and 
was  full  of  youth  and  vigor.  I  gave  him  repeated  blows  to 
make  sure  work,  and  laid  him  lifeless  at  my  feet. 

When  I  was  satisfied  that  I  had  done  for  him,  I  returned 
with  all  haste  to  the  village,  but  had  the  ill-luck  to  meet  two  of 


THE  STOUT  OF  TUE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         183 

the  sbirri  as  I  entered  it.  They  accosted  me  and  asked  if  I  had 
seen  their  chief.  I  assumed  an  air  of  tranquillity,  and  told 
them  I  had  not.  They  continued  on  their  way,  and,  within  a 
few  hours,  brought  back  the  dead  body  to  Prossedi.  Their 
suspicions  of  me  being  already  awakened,  I  was  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison.  Here  I  lay  several  weeks,  when  the 
prince,  who  was  Seigneur  of  Prossedi,  directed  judicial  pro 
ceedings  against  me.  I  was  brought  to  trial,  and  a  witness 
was  produced  who  pretended  to  have  seen  me  not  far  from  the 
bleeding  body,  and  flying  with  precipitation,  so  I  was  con 
demned  to  the  galleys  for  thirty  years. 

"  Curse  on  such  laws,"  vociferated  the  bandit,  foaming  with 
rage ;  ' '  curse  on  such  a  government,  and  ten  thousand  curses 
on  the  prince  who  caused  me  to  be  adjudged  so  rigorously, 
while  so  many  other  Roman  princes  harbor  and  protect  assas 
sins  a  thousand  times  more  culpable.  What  had  I  done  but 
what  was  inspired  by  a  love  of  justice  and  my  country?  Why 
was  my  act  more  culpable  than  that  of  Brutus,  when  he  sacri 
ficed  Csesar  to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  justice?" 

There  was  something  at  once  both  lofty  and  ludicrous  in  the 
rhapsody  of  this  robber  chief,  thus  associating  himself  with 
one  of  the  great  names  of  antiquity.  It  showed,  however,  that 
he  had  at  least  the  merit  of  knowing  the  remarkable  facts  in 
the  history  of  his  country.  He  became  more  calm,  and  re 
sumed  his  narrative. 

I  was  conducted  to  Civita  Vecchia  in  fetters.  My  heart  was 
burning  with  rage.  I  had  been  married  scarce  six  months  to  a 
woman  whom  I  passionately  loved,  and  who  was  pregnant. 
My  family  was  in  despair.  For  a  long  time  I  made  unsuccess 
ful  efforts  to  break  my  chain.  At  length  I  found  a  morsel  of 
iron  which  I  hid  carefully,  endeavored  with  a  pointed  flint  to 
fashion  it  into  a  kind  of  file.  I  occupied  myself  in  this  work 
during  the  night-time,  and  when  it  was  finished,  I  made  out, 
after  a  long  time,  to  sever  one  of  the  rings  of  my  chain.  My 
flight  was  successful. 

I  wandered  for  several  weeks  in  the  mountains  which  sur 
round  Prossedi,  and  found  means  to  inform  my  wife  of  the 
place  where  I  was  concealed.  She  came  often  to  see  me.  I  had 
determined  to  put  myself  at  the  head  of  an  armed  band.  She 
endeavored  for  a  long  time  to  dissuade  me;  but  finding  my 
resolution  fixed,  she  at  length  united  in  my  project  of  ven 
geance,  and  brought  me,  herself,  my  poniard. 

By  her  means  I  communicated  with  several  brave  fellows  of 


184  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

the  neighboring  villages,  who  I  knew  to  be  ready  to  take  to 
the  mountains,  and  only  panting  for  an  opportunity  to  exercise 
their  daring  spirits.  We  soon  formed  a  combination,  pro 
cured  arms,  and  we  have  had  ample  opportunities  of  reveng 
ing  ourselves  for  the  wrongs  and  injuries  which  most  of  us 
have  suffered.  Every  thing  has  succeeded  with  us  until  now, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  our  blunder  in  mistaking  you  for  the 
prince,  our  fortunes  would  have  been  made. 

Here  the  robber  concluded  his  story.  He  had  talked  himself 
into  companionship,  and  assured  me  he  no  longer  bore  me  any 
grudge  for  the  error  of  which  I  had  been  the  innocent  cause. 
He  even  professed  a  kindness  for  me,  and  wished  me  to  remain 
some  time  with  them.  He  promised  to  give  me  a  sight  of  cer 
tain  grottos  which  they  occupied  beyond  Villetri,  and  whither 
they  resorted  during  the  intervals  of  their  expeditions.  He 
assured  me  that  they  led  a  jovial  life  there ;  had  plenty  of  good 
cheer ;  slept  on  beds  of  moss,  and  were  waited  upon  by  young 
and  beautiful  females,  whom  I  might  take  for  models. 

I  confess  I  felt  my  curiosity  roused  by  his  descriptions  of 
these  grottos  and  their  inhabitants ;  they  realized  those  scenes 
in  robber-story  which  I  had  always  looked  upon  as  mere  crea 
tions  of  the  fancy.  I  should  gladly  have  accepted  his  invita 
tion,  and  paid  a  visit  to  those  caverns,  could  I  have  felt  more 
secure  in  my  company. 

I  began  to  find  my  situation  less  painful.  I  had  evidently 
propitiated  the  good-will  of  the  chieftain,  and  hoped  that  he 
might  release  me  for  a  moderate  ransom.  A  new  alarm,  how 
ever,  awaited  me.  While  the  captain  was  looking  out  with  im 
patience  for  the  return  of  the  messenger  who  had  been  sent  to 
the  prince,  the  sentinel  who  had  been  posted  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  facing  the  plain  of  la  Molara,  came  running  towards 
us  with  precipitation.  "We  are  betrayed!"  exclaimed  he. 
"The  police  of  Frescati  are  after  us.  A  party  of  carabiniers 
have  just  stopped  at  the  inn  below  the  mountain."  Then  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  his  stiletto,  he  swore,  with  a  terrible  oath,  that 
if  they  made  the  least  movement  towards  the  mountains,  my 
life  and  the  lives  of  my  fellow-prisoners  should  answer  for  it. 

The  chieftain  resumed  all  his  ferocity  of  demeanor,  and 
approved  of  what  his  companion  said ;  but  when  the  latter  had 
returned  to  his  post,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  softened  air:  "  I 
must  act  as  chief,"  said  he,  "and  humor  my  dangerous  sub 
alterns.  It  is  a  law  with  us  to  kill  our  prisoners  rather  than 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         185 

suffer  them  to  be  rescued ;  but  do  not  be  alarmed.  In  case  TV« 
are  surprised  keep  by  me ;  fly  with  us,  and  I  will  consider  my 
self  responsible  for  your  life. " 

There  was  nothing  very  consolatory  in  this  arrangement, 
which  would  have  placed  me  between  two  dangers ;  I  scarcely 
knew,  in  case  of  flight,  which  I  should  have  most  to  appre 
hend  from,  the  carbines  of  the  pursuers,  or  the  stilettos  of  the 
pursued.  I  remained  silent,  however,  and  endeavored  to  main 
tain  a  look  of  tranquillity. 

For  an  hour  was  I  kept  in  this  state  of  peril  and  anxiety. 
The  robbers,  crouching  among  their  leafy  coverts,  kept  an 
eagle  watch  upon  the  carabiniers  below,  as  they  loitered  about 
the  inn ;  sometimes  lolling  about  the  portal ;  sometimes  disap 
pearing  for  several  minutes,  then  sallying  out,  examining  their 
weapons,  pointing  in  different  directions  and  apparently  ask 
ing  questions  about  the  neighborhood;  not  a  movement  or 
gesture  was  last  upon  the  keen  eyes  of  the  brigands.  At 
length  we  were  relieved  from  our  apprehensions.  The  cara 
biniers  having  finished  their  refreshment,  seized  their  arms, 
continued  along  the  valley  towards  the  great  road,  and  gradu 
ally  left  the  mountain  behind  them.  "I  felt  almost  certain," 
said  the  chief,  "that  they  could  not  be  sent  after  us.  They 
know  too  well  how  prisoners  have  fared  in  our  hands  on  simi 
lar  occasions.  Our  laws  in  this  respect  are  inflexible,  and  are 
necessary  for  our  safety.  If  we  once  flinched  from  them,  there 
would  no  longer  be  such  thing  as  a  ransom  to  be  procured." 

There  were  no  signs  yet  of  the  messenger's  return.  I  was 
preparing  to  resume  my  sketching,  when  the  captain  drew  a 
quire  of  paper  from  his  knapsack—"  Come,"  said  he,  laughing, 
"you  are  a  painter;  take  my  likeness.  The  leaves  of  your 
portfolio  are  small;  draw  it  on  this."  I  gladly  consented,  for 
it  was  a  study  that  seldom  presents  itself  to  a  painter.  I  recol 
lected  that  Salvator  Rosa  in  his  youth  had  voluntarily  so 
journed  for  a  time  among  the  banditti  of  Calabria,  and  had 
filled  his  mind  with  the  savage  scenery  and  savage  associates 
by  which  he  was  surrounded.  I  seized  my  pencil  with  enthu 
siasm  at  the  thought.  I  found  the  captain  the  most  docile  of 
subjects,  and  after  various  shifting  of  positions,  I  placed  hin> 
in  an  attitude  to  my  mind. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  stern,  muscular  figure,  in  fanciful 
bandit  costume,  with  pistols  and  poniards  in  belt,  his  brawny 
neck  bare,  a  handkerchief  loosely  thrown  around  it,  and  the 
two  ends  in  front  strung  with  rings  of  all  kinds,  the  spoils  of 


]86  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

travellers;  reliques  and  medals  hung  on  his  breast;  his  ha 
decorated  with  various-colored  ribbands;  his  vest  and  shor 
breeches  of  bright  colors  and  finely  embroidered ;  his  1  egs  in 
buskins  or  leggins.    Fancy  him  on  a  mountain  height,  among 
wild  rocks  and  rugged  oaks,  leaning  on  his  carbine  as  if  medi 
tating  some  exploit,  while  far  below  are  beheld  villages  and 
villas,  the  scenes  of  his  maraudings,  with  the  wide  Campagna 
dimly  extending  in  the  distance. 

The  robber  was  pleased  with  the  sketch,  and  seemed  to  ad 
mire  himself  upon  paper.  I  had  scarcely  finished,  when  the 
laborer  arrived  who  had  been  sent  for  my  ransom.  He  had 
reached  Tusculum  two  hours  after  midnight.  He  brought  me 
a  letter  from  the  prince,  who  was  in  bed  at  the  time  of  his 
arrival.  As  I  had  predicted,  he  treated  the  demand  as  extrava 
gant,  but  offered  five  hundred  dollars  for  my  ransom.  Having 
no  money  by  him  at  the  moment,  he  had  sent  a  note  for  the 
amount,  payable  to  whomever  should  conduct  me  safe  and 
sound  to  Eome.  I  presented  the  note  of  hand  to  the  chieftain ; 
he  received  it  with  a  shrug.  "  Of  what  use  are  notes  of  hand 
to  us?"  said  he,  "who  can  we  send  with  you  to  Rome  to  re 
ceive  it?  We  are  all  marked  men,  known  and  described  at 
every  gate  and  military  post,  and  village  church-door.  No,  we 
must  have  gold  and  silver;  let  the  sum  be  paid  in  cash  and  you 
ehall  be  restored  to  liberty." 

The  captain  again  placed  a  sheet  of  paper  before  me  to  com 
municate  his  determination  to  the  prince.  When  I  had  finished 
the  letter  and  took  the  sheet  from  the  quire,  I  found  on  the 
opposite  side  of  it  the  portrait  which  I  had  just  been  tracing.  I 
was  about  to  tear  it  off  and  give  it  to  the  chief. 

"  Hold,"  said  he,  "  let  it  go  to  Rome;  let  them  see  what  kind 
of  looking  fellow  I  am.  Perhaps  the  prince  and  his  friends 
may  form  as  good  an  opinion  of  me  from  my  face  as  you  have 
done." 

This  was  said  sportively,  yet  it  was  evident  there  was  vanity 
lurking  at  the  bottom.  Even  this  wary,  distrustful  chief  of 
banditti  forgot  for  a  moment  his  usual  foresight  and  precaution 
in  the  common  wish  to  be  admired.  He  never  reflected  what 
use  might  be  made  of  this  portrait  in  his  pursuit  and  convic 
tion. 

The  letter  was  folded  and  directed,  and  the  messenger  de 
parted  again  for  Tusculum.  It  was  now  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  as  yet  we  had  eaten  nothing.  In  spite  of  all  my 
anxiety,  I  began  to  feel  a  craving  appetite.  I  was  glad,  there- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         187 

fore,  to  hear  the  captain  talk  something  of  eating.  He  ob 
served  that  for  three  days  and  nights  they  had  been  lurking 
about  among  rocks  and  woods,  meditating  their  expedition  to 
Tusculum,  during  which  all  their  provisions  had  been  exhausted. 
He  should  now  take  measures  to  procure  a  supply.  Leaving 
me,  therefore,  in  the  charge  of  his  comrade,  in  whom  he  ap 
peared  to  have  implicit  confidence,  he  departed,  assuring  me, 
that  in  less  than  two  hours  we  should  make  a  good  dinner. 
Where  it  was  to  come  from  was  an  enigma  to  me,  though  it 
was  evident  these  beings  had  their  secret  friends  and  agents 
throughout  the  country. 

Indeed,  the  inhabitants  of  these  mountains  and  of  the  valleys 
which  they  embosom  are  a  rude,  half  civilized  set.  The  towns 
and  villages  among  the  forests  of  the  Abruzzi,  shut  up  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  are  almost  like  savage  dens.  It  is  won 
derful  that  such  rude  abodes,  so  little  known  and  visited, 
should  be  embosomed  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  travelled 
and  civilized  countries  of  Europe.  Among  these  regions  the 
robber  prowls  unmolested ;  not  a  mountaineer  hesitates  to  give 
him  secret  harbor  and  assistance.  The  shepherds,  however, 
who  tend  their  flocks  among  the  mountains,  are  the  favorite 
emissaries  of  the  robbers,  when  they  would  send  messages 
down  to  the  valleys  either  for  ransom  or  supplies.  The  shep 
herds  of  the  Abruzzi  are  as  wild  as  the  scenes  they  frequent. 
They  are  clad  in  a  rude  garb  of  black  or  brown  sheep-skin; 
they  have  high  conical  hats,  and  coarse  sandals  of  cloth 
bound  round  their  legs  with  thongs,  similar  to  those  worn  by 
the  robbers.  They  carry  long  staffs,  on  which  as  they  lean  they 
form  picturesque  objects  in  the  lonely  landscape,  and  they  are 
followed  by  their  ever-constant  companion,  the  dog.  They  are 
a  curious,  questioning  set,  glad  at  any  time  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  their  solitude  by  the  conversation  of  the  passer 
by,  and  the  dog  will  lend  an  attentive  ear,  and  put  on  as 
sagacious  and  inquisitive  a  look  as  his  master. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  story.  I  was  now  left  alone 
with  one  of  the  robbers,  the  confidential  companion  of  the 
chief.  He  was  the  youngest  and  most  vigorous  of  the  band, 
and  though  his  countenance  had  something  of  that  dissolute 
fierceness  which  seems  natural  to  this  desperate,  lawless  mode 
of  life,  yet  there  were  traits  of  manly  beauty  about  it.  As  an 
artist  I  could  not  but  admire  it.  I  had  remarked  in  him  an 
air  of  abstraction  and  reverie,  and  at  times  a  movement  of  in 
ward  suffering  and  impatience.  He  now  sat  on  the  ground; 


188  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  resting  between  his  clenched 
fists,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth  with  an  expression  of  sad 
and  bitter  rumination.  I  had  grown  familiar  with  him  from 
repeated  conversations,  and  had  found  him  superior  in  mind 
to  the  rest  of  the  band.  I  was  anxious  to  seize  every  oppor 
tunity  of  sounding  the  feelings  of  these  singular  beings.  I 
fancied  I  read  in  the  countenance  of  this  one  traces  of  self-con 
demnation  and  remorse ;  and  the  ease  with  which  I  had  drawn 
forth  the  confidence  of  the  chieftain  encouraged  me  to  hope 
the  same  with  his  followers. 

After  a  little  preliminary  conversation,  I  ventured  to  ask 
him  if  he  did  not  feel  regret  at  having  abandoned  his  family 
and  taken  to  this  dangerous  profession.  "I  feel,"  replied  he, 
' '  but  one  regret,  and  that  will  end  only  with  my  life ;"  as  he 
said  this  he  pressed  his  clenched  fists  upon  his  bosom,  drew  his 
breath  through  his  set  teeth,  and  added  with  deep  emotion,  ''  I 
have  something  within  here  that  stifles  me ;  it  is  like  a  burning 
iron  consuming  my  very  heart.  I  could  tell  you  a  miserable 
story,  but  not  now — another  time. " — He  relapsed  into  his  former 
position,  and  sat  with  his  head  between  his  hands,  muttering  to 
himself  in  broken  ejaculations,  and  what  appeared  at  times  to 
be  curses  and  maledictions.  I  saw  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be 
disturbed,  so  I  left  him  to  himself.  In  a  little  tune  the  exhaus 
tion  of  his  feelings,  and  probably  the  fatigues  he  had  undergone 
in  this  expedition,  began  to  produce  drowsiness.  He  struggled 
with  it  for  a  time,  but  the  warmth  and  sultriness  of  mid-day 
made  it  irresistible,  and  he  at  length  stretched  himself  upon 
the  herbage  and  fell  asleep. 

I  now  beheld  a  chance  of  escape  within  my  reach.  My  guard 
lay  before  me  at  my  mercy.  His  vigorous  limbs  relaxed  by 
sleep ;  his  bosom  open  for  the  blow ;  his  carbine  slipped  from 
his  nerveless  grasp,  and  lying  by  his  side ;  his  stiletto  half  out 
of  the  pocket  in  which  it  was  usually  carried.  But  two  of  his 
comrades  were  in  sight,  and  those  at  a  considerable  distance, 
on  the  edge  of  the  mountain;  their  backs  turned  to  us,  and 
their  attention  occupied  in  keeping  a  look-out  upon  the  plain. 
Through  a  strip  of  intervening  forest,  and  at  the  foot  of  a  steep 
descent,  I  beheld  the  village  of  Rocca  Priori.  To  have  secured 
the  carbine  of  the  sleeping  brigand,  to  have  seized  upon  his 
poniard  and  have  plunged  it  in  his  heart,  would  have  been  the 
work  of  an  instant.  Should  he  die  without  noise,  I  might  dart 
through  the  forest  and  down  to  Rocca  Priori  before  my  flight 
might  be  discovered.  In  case  of  alarm,  I  should  still  have  $ 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         189 

fair  start  of  the  robbers,  and  a  chance  of  getting  beyond  tho 
reach  of  their  shot. 

Here  then  was  an  opportunity  for  both  escape  and  ven 
geance;  perilous,  indeed,  but  powerfully  tempting.  Had  my 
situation  been  more  critical  I  could  not  have  resisted  it.  I  re 
flected,  however,  for  a  moment.  The  attempt,  if  successful, 
would  be  followed  by  the  sacrifice  of  my  two  fellow  prisoners, 
who  were  sleeping  profoundly,  and  could  not  be  awakened  in 
time  to  escape.  The  laborer  who  had  gone  after  the  ransom 
might  also  fall  a  victim  to  the  rage  of  the  robbers,  without  the 
money  which  he  brought  being  saved.  Besides,  the  conduct  of 
the  chief  towards  me  made  me  feel  certain  of  speedy  deliver 
ance.  These  reflections  overcame  the  first  powerful  impulse, 
and  I  calmed  the  turbulent  agitation  which  it  had  awakened. 

I  again  took  out  my  materials  for  drawing,  and  amused  my 
self  with  sketching  the  magnificent  prospect.  It  was  now  about 
noon,  and  every  thing  seemed  sunk  into  repose,  like  the  bandit 
that  lay  sleeping  before  me.  The  noon-tide  stillness  that  reigned 
over  these  mountains,  the  vast  landscape  below,  gleaming  with 
distant  towns  and  dotted  with  various  habitations  and  signs  of 
life,  yet  all  so  silent,  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  my  mind. 
The  intermediate  valleys,  too,  that  lie  among  mountains  have 
a  peculiar  air  of  solitude.  Few  sounds  are  heard  at  mid- day 
to  break  the  quiet  of  the  scene.  Sometimes  the  whistle  of  a 
solitary  muleteer,  lagging  with  his  lazy  animal  along  the  road 
that  winds  through  the  centre  of  the  valley ;  sometimes  the 
faint  piping  of  a  shepherd's  reed  from  the  side  of  the  moun 
tain,  or  sometimes  the  bell  of  an  ass  slowly  pacing  along,  fol 
lowed  by  a  monk  with  bare  feet  and  bare  shining  head,  and 
carrying  provisions  to  the  convent. 

I  had  continued  to  sketch  for  some  time  among  my  sleeping 
companions,  when  at  length  I  saw  the  captain  of  the  band  ap 
proaching,  followed  by  a  peasant  leading  a  mule,  on  which  was 
a  well-filled  sack.  I  at  first  apprehended  that  this  was  some 
new  prey  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  robbers,  but  the  con 
tented  look  of  the  peasant  soon  relieved  me,  and  I  was  rejoiced 
to  hear  that  it  was  our  promised  repast.  The  brigands  now 
came  running  from  the  three  sides  of  the  mountain,  having 
the  quick  scent  of  vultures.  Every  one  busied  himself  in  un 
loading  the  mule  and  relieving  the  sack  of  its  contents. 

The  first  thing  that  made  its  appearance  was  an  enormous 
ham  of  a  color  and  plumpness  that  would  have  inspired  the 
pencil  of  Temers.  It  was  followed  by  a  large  cheese,  a  bag  of 


190  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

boiled  chestnuts,  a  little  barrel  of  wine,  and  a  quantity  of  good 
household  bread.  Everything  was  arranged  on  the  grass  with 
a  degree  of  symmetry,  and  the  captain  presenting  me  his 
knife,  requested  me  to  help  myself.  We  all  seated  ourselves 
round  the  viands,  and  nothing  was  heard  for  a  time  but  the 
sound  of  vigorous  mastication,  or  the  gurgling  of  the  barrel  of 
wine  as  it  revolved  briskly  about  the  circle.  My  long  fasting 
and  the  mountain  air  and  exercise  had  given  me  a  keen  appe^ 
tite,  and  never  did  repast  appear  to  me  more  excellent  or  pic 
turesque. 

From  time  to  time  one  of  the  band  was  despatched  to  keep  a 
look-out  upon  the  plain :  no  enemy  was  at  hand,  and  the  din 
ner  was  undisturbed. 

The  peasant  received  nearly  twice  the  value  of  his  provi 
sions,  and  set  off  down  the  mountain  highly  satisfied  with  his 
bargain.  I  felt  invigorated  by  the  hearty  meal  I  had  made, 
and  notwithstanding  that  the  wound  I  had  received  the  even 
ing  before  was  painful,  yet  I  could  not  but  feel  extremely  in 
terested  and  gratified  by  the  singular  scenes  continually  pre 
sented  to  me.  Every  thing  seemed  pictured  about  these  wild 
beings  and  their  haunts.  Their  bivouacs,  their  groups  on  guard, 
their  indolent  noon-tide  repose  on  the  mountain  brow,  their 
rude  repast  on  the  herbage  among  rocks  and  trees,  every  thing 
presented  a  study  for  a  painter.  But  it  was  towards  the  ap 
proach  of  evening  that  I  felt  the  highest  enthusiasm  awakened. 

The  setting  sun,  declining  beyond  the  vast  Campagna,  shed 
its  rich  yellow  beams  on  the  woody  summits  of  the  Abruzzi. 
Several  mountains  crowned  with  snow  shone  brilliantly  in  the 
distance,  contrasting  their  brightness  with  others,  which, 
thrown  into  shade,  assumed  deep  tints  of  purple  and  violet 
As  the  evening  advanced,  the  landscape  darkened  into  a  sterner 
character.  The  immense  solitude  around ;  the  wild  mountains 
broken  into  rocks  and  precipices,  intermingled  with  vast  oak, 
cork,  and  chestnuts ;  and  the  groups  of  banditti  in  the  fore 
ground,  reminded  me  of  those  savage  scenes  of  Salvator  Rosa. 

To  beguile  the  time  the  captain  proposed  to  his  comrades  to 
spread  before  me  their  jewels  and  cameos,  as  I  must  doubtless 
be  a  judge  of  such  articles,  and  able  to  inform  them  of  their 
nature.  He  set  the  example,  the  others  followed  it,  and  in  a 
few  moments  I  saw  the  grass  before  me  sparkling  with  jewels 
and  gems  that  would  have  delighted  the  eyes  of  an  antiquary 
or  a  fine  lady.  Among  them  were  several  precious  jewels  and 
antique  intaglios  and  cameos  of  great  value,  the  spoils  doubt- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.       191 

less  of  travellers  of  distinction.  I  found  that  they  were  in  the 
habit  of  selling  their  booty  in  the  frontier  towns.  As  these  in 
general  were  thinly  and  poorly  peopled,  and  little  frequented 
by  travellers,  they  could  offer  no  market  for  such  valuable  ar 
ticles  of  taste  and  luxury.  I  suggested  to  them  the  certainty 
of  their  readily  obtaining  great  pieces  for  these  gems  among 
the  rich  strangers  with  which  Rome  was  thronged. 

The  impression  made  upon  their  greedy  minds  was  imme 
diately  apparent.  One  of  the  band,  a  young  man,  and  the  least 
known,  requested  permission  of  the  captain  to  depart  the  fol 
lowing  day  in  disguise  for  Rome,  for  the  purpose  of  traffick  ; 
promising  on  the  faith  of  a  bandit  (a  sacred  pledge  amongst 
them)  to  return  in  two  days  to  any  place  he  might  appoint. 
The  captain  consented,  and  a  curious  scene  took  place.  The 
robbers  crowded  round  him  eagerly,  confiding  to  him  such  of 
their  jewels  as  they  wished  to  dispose  of,  and  giving  him  in 
structions  what  to  demand.  There  was  bargaining  and  ex 
changing  and  selling  of  trinkets  among  themselves,  and  I  be 
held  my  watch,  which  had  a  chain  and  valuable  seals,  pur 
chased  by  the  young  robber  merchant  of  the  ruffian  who  had 
plundered  me,  for  sixty  dollars.  I  now  conceived  a  faint  hope 
that  if  it  went  to  Rome,  I  might  somehow  or  other  regain  pos 
session  of  it. 

In  the  mean  time  day  declined,  and  no  messenger  returned 
from  Tusculum. 

The  idea  of  passing  another  night  in  the  woods  was  extremely 
disheartening  ;  for  I  began  to  be  satisfied  with  what  I  had  seen 
of  robber  life.  The  chieftain  now  ordered  his  men  to  follow 
him,  that  he  might  station  them  at  their  posts,  adding,  that  if 
the  messenger  did  not  return  before  night  they  must  shift  their 
quarters  to  some  other  place. 

I  was  again  left  alone  with  the  young  bandit  who,  had  before 
r  guarded  me  :  he  had  the  same  gloomy  air  and  haggard  eye, 
1  with  now  and  then  a  bitter  sardonic  smile.  I  was  deter 
mined  to  probe  this  ulcerated  heart,  and  reminded  him  of  a 
kind  of  promise  he  had  given  me  to  tell  me  the  cause  of  his 
Buffering. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  these  troubled  spirits  were  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  disburthen  themselves ;  and  of  having  some 
fresh  undiseased  mind  with  which  they  could  communicate. 
I  had  hardly  made  the  request  but  he  seated  himself  by  my 
Bide,  and  gave  me  his  story  in,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect, 
the  following  words. 


192  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ROBBER. 

I  WAS  born  at  the  little  town  of  Frosinone,  which  lies  at  the 
skirts  of  the  Abruzzi.  My  father  had  made  a  little  property 
in  trade,  and  gave  me  some  education,  as  he  intended  me  for 
the  church,  but  I  had  kept  gay  company  too  much  to  relish  the 
cowl,  so  I  grew  up  a  loiterer  about  the  place.  I  was  a  heedless 
fellow,  a  little  quarrelsome  on  occasions,  but  good-humored  in 
the  main,  so  I  made  my  way  very  well  for  a  tune,  until  I  fell 
in  love.  There  lived  in  our  town  a  surveyor,  or  land  bailiff, 
of  the  prince's  who  had  a  young  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl  of 
sixteen.  She  was  looked  upon  as  something  better  than  the 
common  run  of  our  townsfolk,  and  kept  almost  entirely  at 
home.  I  saw  her  occasionally,  and  became  madly  in  love  with 
her,  she  looked  so  fresh  and  tender,  and  so  different  to  the  sun 
burnt  females  to  whom  I  had  been  accustomed. 

As  my  father  kept  me  in  money,  I  always  dressed  well,  and 
took  all  opportunities  of  showing  myself  to  advantage  in  the 
eyes  of  the  little  beauty.  I  used  to  see  her  at  church ;  and  as 
I  could  play  a  little  upon  the  guitar,  I  gave  her  a  tune  some 
times  under  her  window  of  an  evening ;  and  I  tried  to  have 
interviews  with  her  in  her  father's  vineyard,  not  far  from  the 
town,  where  she  sometimes  walked.  She  was  evidently 
pleased  with  me,  but  she  was  young  and  shy,  and  her  father 
kept  a  strict  eye  upon  her,  and  took  alarm  at  my  attentions, 
for  he  had  a  bad  opinion  of  me,  and  looked  for  a  better  match 
for  his  daughter.  I  became  furious  at  the  difficulties  thrown 
in  my  way,  having  been  accustomed  always  to  easy  success 
among  the  women,  being  considered  one  of  the  smartest  young 
fellows  of  the  place. 

Her  father  brought  home  a  suitor  for  her ;  a  rich  farmer  from 
a  neighboring  town.  The  wedding-day  was  appointed,  and  prep 
arations  were  making.  I  got  sight  of  her  at  her  window,  and 
I  thought  she  looked  sadly  at  me.  I  determined  the  mr.tch 
should  not  take  place,  cost  what  it  might.  I  met  her  intended 
bridegroom  in  the  market-place,  and  could  not  restrain  the 
expression  of  my  rage.  A  few  hot  words  passed  between  us, 
when  I  drew  my  stiletto,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  I  fled 
to  a  neighboring  church  for  refuge ;  and  with  a  little  money  1 
obtained  absolution;  but  I  did  not  dare  to  venture  from  my 
asylum. 

At  that  time  our  captain  was  forming  his  troop.    He  had 


THE  STOLT  02    1SJ7  20UNG  ROBBER.  193 

known  me  from  boyhood,  and  hearing  of  my  situation,  came  to 
me  in  secret,  and  made  such  offers  that  I  agreed  to  enlist  myself 
among  his  followers.  Indeed,  I  had  more  than  once  thought 
of  taking  to  this  mode  of  life,  having  known  several  brave 
fellows  of  the  mountains,  who  used  to  spend  their  money 
freely  among  us  youngsters  of  the  town.  I  accordingly  left 
my  asylum  late  one  night,  repaired  to  the  appointed  place  of 
meeting ;  took  the  oaths  prescribed,  and  became  one  of  the  troop. 
We  were  for  some  time  in  a  distant  part  of  the  mountains,  and 
our  wild  adventurous  kind  of  lif e  hit  my  fancy  wonderfully, 
and  diverted  my  thoughts.  At  length  they  returned  with  all 
their  violence  to  the  recollection  of  Rosetta.  The  solitude  in 
which  I  often  found  myself  gave  me  time  to  brood  over  her 
image,  and  as  I  have  kept  watch  at  night  over  our  sleeping 
camp  in  the  mountains,  my  feelings  have  been  roused  almost 
to  a  fever. 

At  length  we  shifted  our  ground,  and  determined  to  make  a 
descent  upon  the  road  between  Terracina  and  Naples.  In  the 
course  of  our  expedition,  we  passed  a  day  or  two  in  the  woody 
mountains  which  rise  above  Frosinone.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  felt  when  I  looked  down  upon  the  place,  and  distinguished 
the  residence  of  Rosetta.  I  determined  to  have  an  interview 
with  her;  but  to  what  purpose?  I  could  not  expect  that  she 
would  quit  her  home,  and  accompany  me  in  my  hazardous  lif  e 
among  the  mountains.  She  had  been  brought  up  too  tenderly 
for  that ;  and  when  I  looked  upon  the  women  who  were  associ 
ated  with  some  of  our  troop,  I  could  not  have  borne  the 
thoughts  of  her  being  their  companion.  All  return  to  my  for 
mer  life  was  likewise  hopeless ;  for  a  price  was  set  upon  my 
head.  Still  I  determined  to  see  her;  the  very  hazard  and 
oiiitlessness  of  the  thing  made  me  furious  to  accomplish  it. 
'  It  is  about  three  weeks  since  I  persuaded  our  captain  to  draw 
lown  to  the  vicinity  of  Frosinone,  in  hopes  of  entrapping  some 
of  its  principal  inhabitants,  and  compelling  them  to  a  ransom. 
We  were  lying  in  ambush  towards  evening,  not  far  from  the 
fineyard  of  Rosetta's  father.  I  stole  quietly  from  my  compan 
ions,  and  drew  near  to  reconnoitre  the  place  of  her  frequent 
walks. 

How  my  heart  beat  when,  among  the  vines,  I  beheld  th« 
gleaming  of  a  white  dress  1  I  knew  it  must  be  Rosetta's ;  it 
being  rare  for  any  female  of  the  place  to  dress  in  white.  I 
advanced  secretly  and  without  noise,  until  putting  aside  the 
tines,  I  stood  suddenly  before  her.  She  uttered  a  piercing 


194  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

shriek,  but  I  seized  her  in  my  arms,  put  my  hand  upon  her 
mouth  and  conjured  her  to  be  silent.  I  poured  out  all  the 
frenzy  of  my  passion ;  offered  to  renounce  my  mode  of  life,  to 
put  my  fate  in  her  hands,  to  fly  with  her  where  we  might  live 
in  safety  together.  All  that  I  could  say,  or  do,  would  not 
pacify  her.  Instead  of  love,  horror  and  affright  seemed  to 
have  taken  possession  of  her  breast. — She  struggled  partly 
from  my  grasp,  and  filled  the  air  with  her  cries.  In  an  instant 
the  captain  and  the  rest  of  my  companions  were  around  us. 
I  would  have  given  anything  at  that  moment  had  she  been 
safe  out  of  our  hands,  and  in  her  father's  house.  It  was  too 
late.  The  captain  pronounced  her  a  prize,  and  ordered  that 
she  should  be  borne  to  the  mountains.  I  represented  to  him 
that  she  was  my  prize,  that  I  had  a  previous  claim  to  her ;  and 
I  mentioned  my  former  attachment.  He  sneered  bitterly  in 
reply;  observed  that  brigands  had  no  business  with  village 
intrigues,  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  troop,  all 
spoils  of  the  kind  were  determined  by  lot.  Love  and  jealousy 
were  raging  in  my  heart,  but  I  had  to  choose  between  obedi 
ence  and  death.  I  surrendered  her  to  the  captain,  and  we 
made  for  the  mountains. 

She  was  overcome  by  affright,  and  her  steps  were  so  feeble 
and  faltering,  and  it  was  necessary  to  support  her.  I  could 
not  endure  the  idea  that  my  comi  ades  should  touch  her,  and 
assuming  a  forced  tranquillity,  begged  that  she  might  be  con 
fided  to  me,  as  one  to  whom  she  was  more  accustomed.  The 
captain  regarded  me  for  a  moment  with  a  searching  look,  but 
I  bore  it  without  flinching,  and  he  consented.  I  took  her  in 
my  arms :  she  was  almost  senseless.  Her  head  rested  on  my 
shoulder,  her  mouth  was  near  to  mine.  I  felt  her  breath  on 
my  face,  and  it  seemed  to  fan  the  flame  which  devoured  me. 
Oh,  God !  to  have  this  glowing  treasure  in  my  arms,  and  yet  to 
think  it  was  not  mine ! 

We  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  I  ascended  it  with 
difficulty,  particularly  where  the  woods  were  thick ;  but  I  would 
not  relinquish  my  delicious  burthen.  I  reflected  with  rage, 
however,  that  I  must  soon  do  so.  The  thoughts  that  so  deli 
cate  a  creature  must  be  abandoned  to  my  rude  companions, 
maddened  me.  I  felt  tempted,  the  stiletto  in  my  hand,  to  cut 
my  way  through  them  all,  and  bear  her  off  in  triumph.  I 
scarcely  conceived  the  idea,  before  I  saw  its  rashness ;  but  my 
brain  was  fevered  with  the  thought  that  any  but  myself  should 
enjoy  her  charms.  I  endeavored  to  outstrip  my  companions 


TEE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ROBBER.  195 

by  the  quickness  of  my  movements ;  and  to  get  a  little  distance 
ahead,  in  case  any  favorable  opportunity  of  escape  should  pre 
sent.  Vain  effort !  The  voice  of  the  captain  suddenly  ordered 
a  halt.  I  trembled,  but  had  to  obey.  The  poor  girl  partly 
opened  a  languid  eye,  but  was  without  strength  or  motion.  I 
laid  her  upon  the  grass.  The  captain  darted  on  me  a  terrible 
look  of  suspicion,  and  ordered  me  to  scour  the  woods  with  my 
companions,  in  search  of  some  shepherd  who  might  be  sent  to 
her  father's  to  demand  a  ransom. 

I  saw  at  once  the  peril.  To  resist  with  violence  was  certain 
death ;  but  to  leave  her  alone,  in  the  power  of  the  captain ! — I 
spoke  out  then  with  a  fervor  inspired  by  my  passion  and  my 
despair.  I  reminded  the  captain  that  I  was  the  first  to  seize 
her ;  that  she  was  my  prize,  and  that  my  previous  attachment 
for  her  should  make  her  sacred  among  my  companions.  I 
insisted,  therefore,  that  he  should  pledge  me  his  word  to  respect 
her;  otherwise  I  should  refuse  obedience  to  his  orders.  His 
only  reply  was,  to  cock  his  carbine ;  and  at  the  signal  my  com 
rades  did  the  same.  They  laughed  with  cruelty  at  my  impo 
tent  rage.  What  could  I  do?  I  felt  the  madness  of  resistance. 
I  was  menaced  on  all  hands,  and  my  companions  obliged  me  to 
follow  them. .  She  remained  alone  with  the  chief — yes,  alone — 
and  almost  lifeless ! — 

Here  the  robber  paused  in  his  recital,  overpowered  by  his 
emotions.  Great  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead;  he 
panted  rather  than  breathed ;  his  brawny  bosom  rose  and  fell 
like  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea.  When  he  had  become  a  little 
calm,  he  continued  his  recital. 

I  was  not  long  in  finding  a  shepherd,  said  he.  I  ran  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  deer,  eager,  if  possible,  to  get  back  before  what  I 
dreaded  might  take  place.  I  had  left  my  companions  far 
behind,  and  I  rejoined  them  before  they  had  reached  one-half 
the  distance  I  had  made.  I  hurried  them  back  to  the .  place 
where  we  had  left  the  captain.  As  we  approached,  I  beheld 
him  seated  by  the  side  of  Rosetta.  His  triumphant  look,  and 
the  desolate  condition  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  left  me  no  doubt 
of  her  fate.  I  know  not  how  I  restrained  my  fury. 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty,  and  by  guiding  her  hand,  that 
she  was  made  to  trace  a  few  characters,  requesting  her  father 
to  send  three  hundred  dollars  as  her  ransom.  The  letter  was 
despatched  by  the  shepherd.  When  he  was  gone,  the  chief 
turned  sternly  to  me :  ' '  You  have  set  an  example, "  said  he,  ' '  of 
mutiny  and  self-will,  which  if  indulged  would  be  ruinous  to  the 


196  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

troop.  Had  I  treated  you  as  our  laws  require,  this  bullet  would 
have  been  driven  through  your  brain.  But  you  are  an  old 
friend ;  I  have  borne  patiently  with  your  fury  and  your  folly ; 
I  have  even  protected  you  from  a  foolish  passion  that  would 
have  unmanned  you.  As  to  this  girl,  the  laws  of  our  associa 
tion  must  have  their  course. "  So  saying,  he  gave  his  commands, 
lots  were  drawn,  and  the  helpless  girl  was  abandoned  to  the 
troop. 

Here  the  robber  paused  again,  panting  with  fury  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  could  resume  his  story. 

Hell,  said  he,  was  raging  in  my  heart.  I  beheld  the  impossi 
bility  of  avenging  myself,  and  I  felt  that,  according  to  the  arti 
cles  in  which  we  stood  bound  to  one  another,  the  captain  was 
in  the  right.  I  rushed  with  frenzy  from  the  place.  I  threw 
myself  upon  the  earth ;  tore  up  the  grass  with  my  hands,  and 
beat  my  head,  and  gnashed  my  teeth  hi  agony  and  rage. 
When  at  length  I  returned,  I  beheld  the  wretched  victim,  pale, 
dishevelled ;  her  dress  torn  and  disordered.  An  emotion  of  pity 
for  a  moment  subdued  my  fiercer  feelings.  I  bore  her  to  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  leaned  her  gently  against  it.  I  took  my 
gourd,  which  was  filled  with  wine,  and  applying  it  to  her  lips, 
endeavored  to  make  her  swallow  a  little.  To  what  a  condition 
was  she  recovered !  She,  whom  I  had  once  seen  the  pride  of 
Frosinone,  who  but  a  short  time  before  I  had  beheld  sporting 
in  her  father's  vineyard,  so  fresh  and  beautiful  and  happy! 
Her  teeth  were  clenched ;  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground ;  her 
form  without  motion,  and  in  a  state  of  absolute  insensibility. 
I  hung  over  her  in  an  agony  of  recollection  of  all  that  she  had 
been,  and  of  anguish  at  what  I  now  beheld  her.  I  darted  round 
a  look  of  horror  at  my  companions,  who  seemed  like  so  many 
fiends  exulting  in  the  downfall  of  an  angel,  and  I  felt  a  horror 
at  myself  for  being  their  accomplice. 

The  captain,  always  suspicious,  saw  with  his  usual  penetra 
tion  what  was  passing  within  me,  and  ordered  me  to  go  upon 
the  ridge  of  woods  to  keep  a  look-out  upon  the  neighborhood 
and  await  the  return  of  the  shepherd.  I  obeyed,  of  course, 
stifling  the  fury  that  raged  within  me,  though  I  felt  for  the 
moment  that  he  was  my  most  deadly  foe. 

On  my  way,  however,  a  ray  of  reflection  came  across  my 
mind.  I  perceived  that  the  captain  was  but  following  with 
strictness  the  terrible  laws  to  which  we  had  sworn  fidelity. 
That  the  passion  by  which  I  had  been  blinded  might  with  jus 
tice  have  been  fatal  to  me  but  for  his  forbearance ;  that  he  had 


THE  STORT  OF  THE   YOUNG  ROBBER.  197 

penetrated  my  soul,  and  had  taken  precautions,  by  sending  me 
out  of  the  way,  to  prevent  my  committing  any  excess  in  my 
anger.  From  that  instant  I  felt  that  I  was  capable  of  pardon 
ing  him, 

Occupied  with  these  thoughts,  I  arrived  at  th«  foot  of  the 
mountain.  The  country  was  solitary  and  secure ;  and  in  a  short 
time  I  beheld  the  shepherd  at  a  distance  crossing  the  plain.  I 
hastened  to  meet  birn.  He  had  obtained  nothing.  He  had 
found  the  father  plunged  in  the  deepest  distress.  He  had  read 
the  letter  with  violent  emotion,  and  then  calming  himself  with 
a  sudden  exertion,  he  had  replied  coldly,  ' '  My  daughter  has 
been  dishonored  by  those  wretches ;  let  her  be  returned  without 
ransom,  or  let  her  die !" 

I  shuddered  at  this  reply.  I  knew,  according  to  the  laws  of 
our  troop,  her  death  was  inevitable.  Our  oaths  required  it.  I 
felt,  nevertheless,  that,  not  having  been  able  to  have  her  to 
myself,  I  could  become  her  executioner ! 

The  robber  again  paused  with  agitation.  I  sat  musing  upon 
his  last  frightful  words,  which  proved  to  what  excess  the  pas 
sions  may  be  carried  when  escaped  from  all  moral  restraint. 
There  was  a. horrible  verity  in  this  story  that  reminded  me  of 
some  of  the  tragic  fictions  of  Dante. 

We  now  came  to  a  fatal  moment,  resumed  the  bandit.  After 
the  report  of  the  shepherd,  I  returned  with  him,  and  the  chief 
tain  received  from  his  lips  the  refusal  of  the  father.  At  a  sig 
nal,  which  we  all  understood,  we  followed  him  some  distance 
from  the  victim.  He  there  pronounced  her  sentence  of  death. 
Every  one  stood  ready  to  execute  his  order ;  but  I  interfered. 
I  observed  that  there  was  something  due  to  pity,  as  well  as  to 
justice.  That  I  was  as  ready  as  any  one  to  approve  the  impla 
cable  law  which  was  to  serve  as  a  warning  to  all  those  who 
hesitated  to  pay  the  ransoms  demanded  for  our  prisoners,  but 
that,  though  the  sacrifice  was  proper,  it  ought  to  be  made  with 
out  cruelty.  The  night  is  approaching,  continued  I ;  she  will 
soon  be  wrapped  in  sleep ;  let  her  then  be  despatched.  All  that 
I  now  claim  on  the  score  of  former  fondness  for  her  is,  let  me 
strike  the  blow.  I  will  do  it  as  surely,  but  more  tenderly  than 
another. 

Several  raised  their  voices  against  my  proposition,  but  the 
captain  imposed  silence  on  them.  He  told  me  I  might  conduct 
her  into  a  thicket  at  some  distance,  and  he  relied  upon  my 
promise. 

I  hastened  to  seize  my  prey.    There  was  a  forlorn  kind  of 


198  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

triumph  at  having  at  length  become  her  exclusive  possessor.  I 
bore  her  off  into  the  thickness  of  the  forest.  She  remained  in 
the  same  state  of  insensibility  and  stupor.  I  was  thankful 
that  she  did  not  recollect  me ;  for  had  she  once  murmured  my 
name,  I  should  have  been  overcome.  She  slept  at  length  in 
the  arms  of  him  who  was  to  poniard  her.  Many  were  the  con 
flicts  I  underwent  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  strike  the 
blow.  My  heart  had  become  sore  by  the  recent  conflicts  it  had 
undergone,  and  I  dreaded  lest,  by  procrastination,  some  other 
should  become  her  executioner.  When  her  repose  had  contin 
ued  for  some  time,  I  separated  myself  gently  from  her,  that  I 
might  not  disturb  her  sleep,  and  seizing  suddenly  my  poniard, 
plunged  it  into  her  bosom.  A  painful  and  concentrated 
murmur,  but  without  any  convulsive  movement,  accompanied 
her  last  sigh.  So  perished  this  unfortunate. 

He  ceased  to  speak.  I  sat  horror-struck,  covering  my  face 
with  my  hands,  seeking,  as  it  were,  to  hide  from  myself  the 
frightful  images  he  had  presented  to  my  mind.  I  was  roused 
from  this  silence  by  the  voice  of  the  captain.  ' '  You  sleep, " 
said  he,  "and  it  is  time  to  be  off.  Come,  we  must  abandon 
this  height,  as  night  is  setting  in,  and  the  messenger  is  not 
returned.  I  will  post  some  one  on  the  mountain  edge,  to  con 
duct  him  to  the  place  where  we  shall  pass  the  night." 

This  was  no  agreeable  news  to  me.  I  was  sick  at  heart  with 
the  dismal  story  I  had  heard.  I  was  harassed  and  fatigued, 
and  the  sight  of  the  banditti  began  to  grow  insupportable  to 
me. 

The  captain  assembled  his  comrades.  We  rapidly  descended 
the  forest  which  we  had  mounted  with  so  much  difficulty  in 
the  morning,  and  soon  arrived  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  fre 
quented  road.  The  robbers  proceeded  with  great  caution, 
carrying  their  guns  cocked,  and  looking  on  every  side  with 
wary  and  suspicious  eyes.  They  were  apprehensive  of  encoun 
tering  the  civic  patrole.  We  left  Rocca  Priori  behind  us. 
There  was  a  fountain  near  by,  and  as  I  was  excessively  thirsty, 
I  begged  permission  to  stop  and  drink.  The  captain  himself 
went,  and  brought  me  water  in  his  hat.  We  pursued  our 
route,  when,  at  the  extremity  of  an  alley  which  crossed  the 
road,  I  perceived  a  female  on  horseback,  dressed  in  white.  She 
was  alone.  I  recollected  the  fate  of  the  poor  girl  in  the  story, 
and  trembled  for  her  safety. 

One  of  the  brigands  saw  her  at  the  same  instant,  and  plung 
ing  into  the  bushes,  he  ran  precipatately  in  the  direction 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ROBBER.  199 

towards  her.  Stopping  on  the  border  of  the  alley,  he  put  one 
knee  to  the  ground,  presented  his  carbine  ready  for  menace, 
or  to  shoot  her  horse  if  she  attempted  to  fly,  and  in  this  way 
awaited  her  approach.  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
intense  anxiety.  I  felt  tempted  to  shout,  and  warn  her  of  her 
danger,  though  my  own  destruction  would  have  been  the  con 
sequence.  It  was  awful  to  see  this  tiger  crouching  ready  for  a 
bound,  and  the  poor  innocent  victim  wandering  unconsciously 
near  biTn.  Nothing  but  a  mere  chance  could  save  her.  To  my 
joy,  the  chance  turned  in  her  favor.  She  seemed  almost  acci 
dentally  to  take  an  opposite  path,  which  led  outside  of  the 
wood,  where  the  robber  dare  not  venture.  To  this  casual  devi 
ation  she  owed  her  safety. 

I  could  not  imagine  why  the  captain  of  the  band  had  ven 
tured  to  such  a  distance  from  the  height,  on  which  he  had 
placed  the  sentinel  to  watch  the  return  of  the  messengers.  He 
seemed  himself  uneasy  at  the  risk  to  which  he  exposed  himself. 
His  movements  were  rapid  and  uneasy ;  I  could  scarce  keep 
pace  with  him.  At  length,  after  three  hours  of  what  might 
be  termed  a  forced  march,  we  mounted  the  extremity  of  the 
same  woods,  the  summit  of  which  we  had  occupied  during  the 
day ;  and  I  learnt  with  satisfaction,  that  we  had  reached  our 
quarters  for  the  night.  "You  must  be  fatigued,"  said  the 
chief  tan;  "but  it  was  necessary  to  survey  the  environs,  so  as 
not  to  be  surprised  during  the  night.  Had  we  met  with  the 
famous  civic  guard  of  Eocca  Priori  you  would  have  seen  fine 
sport. "  Such  was  the  indefatigable  precaution  and  forethought 
of  this  robber  chief,  who  really  gave  continual  evidences  of  mili 
tary  talent. 

The  night  was  magnificent.  The  moon  rising  above  the  hori 
zon  in  a  cloudless  sky,  faintly  lit  up  the  grand  features  of  the 
mountains,  while  lights  twinkling  here  and  there,  like  terres* 
trial  stars,  in  the  wide,  dusky  expanse  of  the  landscape, 
betrayed  the  lonely  cabins  of  the  shepherds.  Exhausted  by 
fatigue,  and  by  the  many  agitations  I  had  experienced,  I  pre 
pared  to  sleep,  soothed  by  the  hope  of  approaching  deliverance. 
The  captain  ordered  his  companions  to  collect  some  dry  moss ; 
he  arranged  with  his  own  hands  a  kind  of  mattress  and  pillow 
of  it,  and  gave  me  his  ample  mantle  as  a  covering.  I  could 
not  but  feel  both  surprised  and  gratified  by  such  unexpected 
attentions  on  the  part  of  this  benevolent  cut-throat :  for  there 
is  nothing  more  striking  than  to  find  the  ordinary  charities, 
which  are  matters  of  course  in  common  life,  flourishing  by  the 


200  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

side  of  such  stern  and  sterile  crime.  It  is  like  finding  the 
tender  flowers  and  fresh  herhage  of  the  valley  growing  among 
the  rocks  ond  cinders  of  the  volcano. 

Before  I  fell  asleep,  I  had*  some  farther  discourse  with  the 
captain,  who  seemed  to  put  great  confidence  in  me.  He  re 
ferred  to  our  previous  conversation  of  the  morning;  told  me  he 
was  weary  of  his  hazardous  profession ;  that  he  had  acquired 
sufficient  property,  and  was  anxious  to  return  to  the  world  and 
lead  a  peaceful  life  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  He  wished  to 
know  whether  it  was  not  in  my  power  to  procure  him  a  pass 
port  for  the  United  States  of  America.  I  applauded  his  good 
intentions,  and  promised  to  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
promote  its  success.  We  then  parted  for  the  night.  I  stretched 
myself  upon  my  couch  of  moss,  which,  after  my  fatigues,  felt 
like  a  bed  of  down,  and  sheltered  by  the  robber's  mantle  from 
all  humidity,  I  slept  soundly  without  waking,  until  the  signal 
to  arise. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  the  day  was  just  dawning. 
As  the  place  where  we  had  passed  the  night  was  too  much 
exposed,  we  moved  up  into  the  thickness  of  the  woods.  A 
fire  was  kindled.  While  there  was  any  flame,  the  mantles 
were  again  extended  round  it ;  but  when  nothing  remained  but 
glowing  cinders,  they  were  lowered,  and  the  robbers  seated 
themselves  in  a  circle. 

The  scene  before  me  reminded  me  of  some  of  those  described 
by  Homer.  There  wanted  only  the  victim  on  the  coals,  and 
the  sacred  knife,  to  cut  off  the  succulent  parts,  and  distribute 
them  around.  My  companions  might  have  rivalled  the  grim 
warriors  of  Greece.  In  place  of  the  noble  repasts,  however, 
of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  I  beheld  displayed  on  the  grass 
the  remains  of  the  ham  which  had  sustained  so  vigorous  an 
attack  on  the  preceding  evening,  accompanied  by  the  reliquea 
of  the  bread,  cheese,  and  wine. 

We  had  scarcely  commenced  our  frugal  breakfast,  when  I 
heard  again  an  imitation  of  the  bleating  of  sheep,  similar  to 
what  I  had  heard  the  day  before.  The  captain  answered  it  in 
the  same  tone.  Two  men  were  soon  after  seen  descending  from 
the  woody  height,  where  we  had  passed  the  preceding  evening. 
On  nearer  approach,  they  proved  to  be  the  sentinel  and  the 
messenger.  The  captain  rose  and  went  to  meet  them.  He 
made  a  signal  for  his  comrades  to  join  him.  They  had  a  short 
conference,  and  then  returning  to  me  with  eagerness,  "Your 
ransom  is  paid,"  said  he;  "you  are  free!" 


TEE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ROBBER.  201 

Though  I  had  anticipated  deliverance,  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
a  rush  of  delight  these  tidings  gave  me.  I  cared  not  to  finish 
rny  repast,  but  prepared  to  depart.  The  captain  took  me  by 
the  hand ;  requested  permission  to  write  to  me,  and  begged  me 
not  to  forget  the  passport.  I  replied,  that  I  hoped  to  be  of 
effectual  service  to  him,  and  that  I  relied  on  his  honor  to  return 
the  prince's  note  for  five  hundred  dollars,  now  that  the  cash 
was  paid.  He  regarded  rne  for  a  moment  with  surprise ;  then, 
seeming  to  recollect  himself,  "E  giusto,"  said  he,  "eccolo— 
adio!"*  He  delivered  me  the  note,  pressed  my  hand  once 
more,  and  we  separated.  The  laborers  were  permitted  to  fol 
low  me,  and  we  resumed  with  joy  our  road  towards  Tusculuin. 


The  artist  ceased  to  speak ;  the  party  continued  for  a  few 
moments  to  pace  the  shore  of  Terracina  in  silence.  The  story 
they  had  heard  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  them,  particu 
larly  on  the  fair  Venetian,  who  had  gradually  regained  her 
husband's  arm.  At  the  part  that  related  to  the  young  girl  of 
Frosinone,  she  had  been  violently  affected;  sobs  broke  from 
her ;  she  clung  close  to  her  husband,  and  as  she  looked  up  to 
him  as  if  for  protection,  the  moon-beams  shining  on  her  beauti 
fully  fair  countenance  showed  it  paler  than  usual  with  terror, 
while  tears  glittered  in  her  fine  dark  eyes.  "O  caro  mio!" 
would  she  murmur,  shuddering  at  every  atrocious  circum 
stance  of  the  story. 

"  Corragio,  mia  vita!"  was  the  reply,  as  the  husband  gently 
and  fondly  tapped  the  white  hand  that  lay  upon  his  arm. 

The  Englishman  alone  preserved  his  usual  phlegm,  and  the 
fair  Venetian  was  piqued  at  it. 

She  had  pardoned  him  a  want  of  gallantry  towards  herself, 
though  a  sin  of  omission  seldom  met  with  in  the  gallant  climate 
of  Italy,  but  the  quiet  coolness  which  lie  maintained  in  matters 
which  so  much  affected  her,  and  the  slow  credence  which  he 
had  given  to  the  stories  which  had  filled  her  with  alarm,  were 
quite  vexatious. 

"  Santa  Maria  I"  said  she  to  husband  as  they  retired  for  the 
night,  ' '  what  insensible  beings  these  English  are  1" 

In  the  morning  all  was  bustle  at  the  inn  at  Terracina. 

The  procaccio  had  departed  at  day -break,  on  its  route  towards 
Rome,  but  the  Englishman  was  yet  to  start,  and  the  departure 
of  an  English  equipage  is  always  enough  to  keep  an  inn  in  a 

*  It  is  just— there  it  i«— adieu! 


202  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

bustle.  On  this  occasion  there  was  more  than  usual  stir ;  for 
the  Englishman  having  much  property  about  him,  and  having 
been  convinced  of  the  real  danger  of  the  road,  had  applied  to 
the  police  and  obtained,  by  dint  of  liberal  pay,  an  escort  of 
eight  dragoons  and  twelve  foot-soldiers,  as  far  a  Fondi. 

Perhaps,  too,  there  might  have  been  a  little  ostentation  at 
bottom,  from  which,  with  great  delicacy  be  it  spoken,  English 
travellers  are  not  always  exempt ;  though  to  say  the  truth,  he 
had  nothing  of  it  in  his  manner.  He  moved  about  taciturn 
and  reserved  as  usual,  among  the  gaping  crowd  in  his  ginger 
bread-colored  travelling  cap,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  gave  laconic  orders  to  John  as  he  packed  away  the  thou 
sand  and  one  indispensable  conveniencies  of  the  night,  double 
loaded  his  pistols  with  great  sang-froid,  and  deposited  them  in 
the  pockets  of  the  carriage,  taking  no  notice  of  a  pair  of  keen 
eyes  gazing  on  him  from  among  the  herd  of  loitering  idlers. 
The  fair  Venetian  now  came  up  with  a  request  made  in  her 
dulcet  tones,  that  he  would  permit  their  carriage  to  proceed 
under  protection  of  his  escort.  The  Englishman,  who  was 
busy  loading  another  pair  of  pistols  for  his  servant,  and  held 
the  ramrod  between  his  teeth,  nodded  assent  as  a  matter  of 
course,  but  without  lifting  up  his  eyes.  The  fair  Venetian  was 
not  accustomed  to  such  indifference.  ' '  O  Dio !"  ejaculated  she 
softly  as  she  retired,  "come  sono  freddi  questi  Inglesi."  At 
length  off  they  set  in  gallant  style,  the  eight  dragoons  prancing 
in  front,  the  twelve  foot-soldiers  marching  in  rear,  and  car 
riages  moving  slowly  in  the  centre  to  enable  the  infantry  to 
keep  pace  with  them.  They  had  proceeded  but  a  few  hundred 
yard  when  it  was  discovered  that  some  indispensable  article 
had  been  left  behind. 

In  fact,  the  Englishman's  purse  was  missing,  and  John  was 
despatched  to  the  inn  to  search  for  it. 

This  occasioned  a  little  delay,  and  the  carriage  of  the  Vene 
tians  drove  slowly  on.  John  came  back  out  of  breath  and  out 
of  humor;  the  purse  was  not  to  be  found;  his  master  was  irri 
tated  ;  he  recollected  the  very  place  where  it  lay ;  the  cursed 
Italian  servant  had  pocketed  it.  John  was  again  sent  back. 
He  returned  once  more,  without  the  purse,  but  with  the  land 
lord  and  the  whole  household  at  his  heels.  A  thousand  ejacu 
lations  and  protestations,  accompanied  by  all  sorts  of  grimaces 
and  contortions.  "No  purse  had  been  seen — his  excellenza 
must  be  mistaken." 

No — his  excellenza  was  not  mistaken ;  the  purse  lay  on  the 


THE  STOUT  OF  THE  YOUNG  ROBBER.  203 

marble  table,  under  the  mirror :  a  green  purse,  half  full  of  gold 
and  silver.  Again  a  thousand  grimaces  and  contortions,  and 
vows  by  San  Genario,  that  no  purse  of  the  kind  had  been  seen. 

The  Englishman  became  furious.  ' '  The  waiter  had  pocketed 
it.  The  landlord  was  a  knave.  The  inn  a  den  of  thieves — it 

was  a  d d  country — he  had  been  cheated  and  plundered 

from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other — but  he'd  have  satisfaction— 
he'd  drive  right  off  to  the  police." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  ordering  the  postilions  to  turn  back, 
when,  on  rising,  he  displaced  the  cushion  of  the  carriage,  and 
the  purse  of  money  fell  chinking  to  the  floor. 

All  the  blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  rush  into  his  face. 

"  D n  the  purse,"  said  he,  as  he  snatched  it  up.  He  dashed 

a  handful  of  money  on  the  ground  before  the  pale,  cringing 
waiter.  ' '  There — be  off, "  cried  he ;  "  John,  order  the  postilions 
to  drive  on." 

Above  half  an  hour  had  been  exhausted  in  this  altercation. 
The  Venetian  carriage  had  loitered  along;  its  passengers  look 
ing  out  from  time  to  time,  and  expecting  the  escort  every 
moment  to  follow.  They  had  gradually  turned  an  angle  of  the 
road  that  shut  them  out  of  sight.  The  little  army  was  again  in 
motion,  and  made  a  very  picturesque  appearance  as  it  wound 
along  at  the  bottom  of  the  rocks ;  the  morning  sunshine  beam 
ing  upon  the  weapons  of  soldiery. 

The  Englishman  lolled  back  in  his  carriage,  vexed  with  him 
self  at  what  had  passed,  and  consequently  out  of  humor  with 
all  the  world.  As  this,  however,  is  no  uncommon  case  with 
gentlemen  who  travel  for  their  pleasure,  it  is  hardly  worthy  of 
remark. 

They  had  wound  up  from  the  coast  among  the  hills,  and 
came  to  a  part  of  the  road  that  admitted  of  some  prospect 
ahead. 

"  I  see  nothing  of  the  lady's  carriage,  sir,"  said  John,  leaning 
over  from  the  coach  box. 

"Hang the  lady's  carriage!"  said  the  Englishman,  crustily; 
' '  don't  plague  me  about  the  lady's  carriage ;  must  I  be  continu 
ally  pestered  with  strangers?" 

John  said  not  another  word,  for  he  understood  his  master's 
mood.  The  road  grew  more  wild  and  lonely ;  they  were  slowly 
proceeding  in  a  foot  pace  up  a  hill ;  the  dragoons  were  some 
distance  ahead,  and  had  just  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
when  they  uttered  an  exclamation,  or  rather  shout,  and  gal 
loped  forward.  The  Englishman  was  aroused  from  his  sulkj 


204  TALES  OF  A  TEA  VELLEE. 

revery.  He  stretched  his  head  from  the  carriage,  which 
had  attained  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Before  him  extended  a  long 
hollow  defile,  commanded  on  one  side  by  rugged,  precipitous 
heights,  covered  with  bushes  and  scanty  forest  trees.  At  some 
distance  he  beheld  the  carriage  of  the  Venitians  overturned ;  a 
numerous  gang  of  desperadoes  were  rifling  it ;  the  young  man 
and  his  servant  were  overpowered  and  partly  stripped,  and  the 
lady  was  in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  ruffians.  The  Englishman 
seized  his  pistols,  sprang  from  his  carriage,  and  called  upon 
John  to  follow  him.  In  the  meantime,  as  the  dragoons  came 
forward,  the  robbers  who  were  busy  with  the  carriage  quitted 
their  spoil,  formed  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
taking  deliberate  aim,  fired.  One  of  the  dragoons  fell,  another 
was  wounded,  and  the  whole  were  for  a  moment  checked  and 
thrown  in  confusion.  The  robbers  loaded  again  in  an  instant. 
The  dragoons  had  discharged  their  carbines,  but  without  appa 
rent  effect ;  they  received  another  volley,  which,  though  none 
fell,  threw  them  again  into  confusion.  The  robbers  were  load 
ing  a  second  time,  when  they  saw  the  foot  soldiers  at  hand.— 
"Scampa  via!"  was  the  word.  They  abandoned  their  prey, 
and  retreated  up  the  rocks;  the  soldiers  after  them.  They 
fought  from  cliff  to  cliff ,  and  bush  to  bush,  the  robbers  turning 
every  now  and  then  to  fire  upon  their  pursuers ;  the  soldiers 
scrambling  after  them,  and  discharging  their  muskets  when 
ever  they  could  get  a  chance.  Sometimes  a  soldier  or  a  robber 
was  shot  down,  and  came  tumbling  among  the  cliffs.  The  dra 
goons  kept  firing  from  below,  whenever  a  robber  came  in 
sight. 

The  Englishman  hastened  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  the 
balls  discharged  at  the  dragoons  had  whistled  past  him  as  he 
advanced.  One  object,  however,  engrossed  his  attention.  It 
was  the  beautiful  Venetian  lady  in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  rob 
bers,  who,  during  the  confusion  of  the  fight,  carried  her  shriek 
ing  up  the  mountains.  He  saw  her  dress  gleaming  among  the 
bushes,  and  he  sprang  up  the  rocks  to  intercept  the  robbers  as 
they  bore  off  their  prey.  The  ruggedness  of  the  sw^p  and  the 
entanglements  of  the  bushes,  delayed  and  impeded  him.  He 
lost  sight  of  the  lady,  but  was  still  guided  by  hw  cries,  which 
grew  fainter  and  fainter.  They  were  off  to  the  left,  while  the 
report  of  muskets  showed  that  the  battle  was  raging  to  the 
right. 

At  length  he  came  upon  what  appeared  to  T>e  a  rugged  foot 
path,  faintly  worn  in  a  gully  of  the  rock,  am  beheld  the  ruf 


THE  STORY  OF  TEE   YOUNG  ROBBER.  2Q5 

fians  at  some  distance  hurrying  the  lady  up  the  defile.  One  of 
them  hearing  his  approach  let  go  his  prey,  advanced  towards 
him,  and  levelling  the  carbine  which  had  been  slung  on  his 
back,  fired.  The  ball  whizzed  through  the  Englishman's  hat, 
and  carried  with  it  some  of  his  hair.  He  returned  the  fire  with 
one  of  his  pistols,  and  the  robber  fell.  The  other  brigand  now 
dropped  the  lady,  and  drawing  a  long  pistol  from  his  belt,  fired 
on  his  adversay  with  deliberate  aim ;  the  ball  passed  between 
his  left  arm  and  his  side,  slightly  wounding  the  arm.  The 
Englishman  advanced  and  discharged  his  remaining  pistol, 
which  wounded  the  robber,  but  not  severely.  The  brigand 
drew  a  stiletto,  and  rushed  upon  his  adversary,  who  eluded  the 
blow,  receiving  merely  a  slight  wound,  and  defending  himself 
with  his  pistol,  which  had  a  spring  bayonet.  They  closed  with 
one  another,  and  a  desperate  struggle  ensued.  The  robber  was 
a  square-built,  thick-set,  man,  powerful,  muscular,  and  active. 
The  Englishman,  though  of  larger  frame  and  greater  strength, 
was  less  active  and  less  accustomed  to  athletic  exercises  and 
feats  of  hardihood,  but  he  showed  himself  practised  and  skilled 
in  the  art  of  defence.  They  were  on  a  craggy  height,  and  the 
Englishman  perceived  that  his  antagonist  was  striving  to  press 
him  to  the  edge. 

A  side  glance  showed  him  also  the  robber  whom  he  had  first 
wounded,  scrambling  up  to  the  assistance  of  his  comrade,  sti 
letto  in  hand.  He  had,  in  fact,  attained  the  summit  of  the  cliff, 
and  the  Englishman  saw  him  within  a  few  steps,  when  he  heard 
suddenly  the  report  of  a  pistol  and  the  ruffian  fell.  The  shot 
came  from  John,  who  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  save  his 
master. 

The  remaining  robber,  exhausted  by  loss  of  blood  and  the 
violence  of  the  contest,  showed  signs  of  faltering.  His  adver 
sary  pursued  his  advantage ;  pressed  on  him,  and  as -his  strength 
relaxed,  dashed  him  headlong  from  the  precipice.  He  looked 
after  him  and  saw  him  lying  motionless  among  the  rocks  below. 

The  Englishman  now  sought  the  fair  Venetian.  He  found 
her  senseless  on  the  ground.  With  his  servant's  assistance  he 
bore  her  down  to  the  road,  where  her  husband  was  raving  like 
one  distracted. 

The  occasional  discharge  of  fire-arms  along  the  height  showed 
that  a  retreating  fight  was  still  kept  up  by  the  robbers.  The 
carriage  was  righted;  the  baggage  was  hastily  replaced;  the 
Venetian,  transported  with  joy  and  gratitude,  took  his  lovely 
and  senseless  burthen  in  his  arms,  and  the  party  resumed  their 


206  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

route  towards  Fondi,  escorted  oy  the  dragoons,  leaving  th« 
foot  soldiers  to  ferret  out  the  banditti. 

While  on  the  way  John  dressed  his  master's  wounds,  which 
were  found  not  to  be  serious. 

Before  arriving  at  Fondi  the  fair  Venetian  had  recovered 
from  her  swoon,  and  was  made  conscious  of  her  safety  and  of 
the  mode  of  her  deli verance.  Her  transports  were  unbounded ; 
and  mingled  with  them  were  enthusiastic  ejaculations  of  grati 
tude  to  her  deliverer.  A  thousand  times  did  she  reproach  her 
self  for  having  accused  him  of  coldness  and  insensibility.  The 
moment  she  saw  him  she  rushed  into  his  arms,  and  clasped 
him  round  the  neck  with  all  the  vivacity  of  her  nation. 

Never  was  man  more  embarrassed  by  the  embraces  of  a  fine 
woman. 

"  My  deliverer!  my  angel!"  exclaimed  she. 

"  Tut!  tut!"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  You  are  wounded!"  shrieked  the  fair  Venetian,  as  she  saw 
the  blood  upon  his  clothes. 

"  Pooh— nothing  at  all  1" 

"O  Dio!"  exclaimed  she,  clasping  him  again  round  the  neck 
and  sobbing  on  his  bosom. 

"Pooh!"  exclaimed  the  Englishman,  looking  somewhat 
foolish;  "this  is  all  nonsense." 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  FOURTH. 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS. 

FOUND   AMONG  THE  PAPERS  OF   THE   LATE  DIEDBICH  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Now  I  remember  those  old  women's  words 
Who  in  my  youth  would  tell  me  winter's  tales; 
And  speak  of  spirits  and  ghosts  that  glide  by  night 
About  the  place  where  treasure  had  been  hid. 

MARLOW'S  JEW  OF  MALTA. 

HELL  GATE. 

ABOUT  six  miles  from  the  renowned  city  of  the  Manhattoes, 
and  in  that  Sound,  or  arm  of  the  sea,  which  passes  between  the 
main  land  and  Nassau  or  Long  Island,  there  is  a  narrow  strait, 
where  the  current  is  violently  compressed  between  shouldering 
promontories,  and  horribly  irritated  and  perplexed  by  rocks 
and  shoals.  Being  at  the  best  of  times  a  very  violent,  hasty 
current,  its  takes  these  impediments  in  mighty  dudgeon ;  boil 
ing  in  whirlpools ;  brawling  and  fretting  in  ripples  and  break 
ers;  and,  in  short,  indulging  in  all  kinds  of  wrong-headed 
paroxysms.  At  such  times,  woe  to  any  unlucky  vessel  that 
ventures  within  its  clutches. 

This  termagant  humor  is  said  to  prevail  only  at  half  tides. 
At  low  water  it  is  as  pacific  as  any  other  stream.  As  the  tide 
rises,  it  begins  to  fret ;  at  half  tide  it  rages  and  roars  as  if  bel 
lowing  for  more  water ;  but  when  the  tide  is  full  it  relapses 
again  into  quiet,  and  for  a  time  seems  almost  to  sleep  as 
soundly  as  an  alderman  after  dinner.  It  may  be  compared  to 
an  inveterate  hard  drinker,  who  is  a  peaceable  fellow  enough 
when  he  has  no  liquor  at  all,  or  when  he  has  a  skin  full,  but 
when  half  seas  over  plays  the  very  devil. 


208  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

This  mighty,  blustering,  bullying  little  strait  was  a  place  ot 
great  difficulty  and  danger  to  the  Dutch  navigators  of  ancient 
days ;  hectoring  their  tub-built  barks  in  a  most  unruly  style ; 
whirling  them  about,  in  a  manner  to  make  any  but  a  Dutch 
man  giddy,  and  not  unf requently  stranding  them  upon  rocks 
and  reefs.  Whereupon  out  of  sheer  spleen  they  denominated 
it  Hellegat  (literally  Hell  Gut)  and  solemnly  gave  it  over  to  the 
devil.  This  appellation  has  since  been  aptly  rendered  into 
English  by  the  name  of  Hell  Gate ;  and  into  nonsense  by  the 
name  of  Hurl  Gate,  according  to  certain  foreign  intruders  who 
neither  understood  Dutch  nor  English.— May  St.  Nicholas  con 
found  them ! 

From  this  strait  to  the  city  of  the  Manhattoes  the  borders  of 
the  Sound  are  greatly  diversified ;  in  one  part,  on  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  island  of  Manhata  and  opposite  Blackwell's  Island, 
Deing  very  much  broken  and  indented  by  rocky  nooks,  over 
hung  with  trees  which  give  them  a  wild  and  romantic  look. 

The  flux  and  reflux  of  the  tide  through  this  part  of  the  Sound 
is  extremely  rapid,  and  the  navigation  troublesome,  by  reason 
of  the  whirling  eddies  and  counter  currents.  I  speak  this  from 
experience,  having  been  much  of  a  navigator  of  these  small 
seas  in  my  boyhood,  and  having  more  than  once  run  the  risk 
of  shipwreck  and  drowning  in  the  course  of  divers  holiday  voy 
ages,  to  which  in  common  with  the  Dutch  urchins  I  was  rather 
prone. 

In  the  midst  of  this  perilous  strait,  and  hard  by  a  group  of 
rocks  called  "the  Hen  and  Chickens,"  there  lay  in  my  boyish 
days  the  wreck  of  a  vessel  which  had  been  entangled  in  the 
whirlpools  and  stranded  during  a  storm.  There  was  some  wild 
story  about  this  being  the  wreck  of  a  pirate,  and  of  some 
bloody  murder,  connected  with  it,  which  I  cannot  now  recol 
lect.  Indeed,  the  desolate  look  of  this  forlorn  hulk,  and  the 
fearful  place  where  it  lay  rotting,  were  sufficient  to  awaken 
strange  notions  concerning  it.  A  row  of  timber  heads,  black 
ened  by  time,  peered  above  the  surface  at  high  water ;  but  at 
low  tide  a  considerable  part  of  the  hull  was  bare,  and  its  great 
ribs  or  timbers,  partly  stripped  of  their  planks,  looked  like  the 
skeleton  of  some  sea  monster.  There  was  also  the  stump  of  a 
mast,  with  a  few  ropes  and  blocks  swinging  about  and  whist 
ling  in  the  wind,  while  the  sea  gull  wheeled  and  screamed 
around  this  melancholy  carcass. 

The  stories  connected  with  this  wreck  made  it  an  object  of 
great  awe  to  my  boyish  fancy  j  but  in  truth  the  whole  neigh- 


KIDD   THE   ^IRATE. 

borhood  was  full  of  fable  and  romance  for  me,  abounding  with 
traditions  about  pirates,  hobgoblins,  and  buried  money.  As  I 
grew  to  more  mature  years  I  made  many  researches  after  the 
truth  of  these  strange  traditions;  for  I  have  always  been  a 
curious  investigator  of  the  valuable,  but  obscure  branches  of 
the  history  of  my  native  province.  I  found  infinite  difficulty, 
however,  in  arriving  at  any  precise  information.  In  seeking 
to  dig  up  one  fact  it  is  incredible  the  number  of  fables  which  I 
unearthed ;  for  the  whole  course  of  the  Sound  seemed  in  my 
younger  days  to  be  like  the  straits  of  Pylorus  of  yore,  the  very 
region  of  fiction.  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  Devil's  Stepping 
Stones,  by  which  that  arch  fiend  made  his  retreat  from  Con 
necticut  to  Long  Island,  seeing  that  the  subject  is  likely  to  be 
learnedly  treated  by  a  worthy  friend  and  contemporary  his 
torian*  whom  I  have  furnished  with  particulars  thereof. 
Neither  will  I  say  anything  of  the  black  man  in  a  three-cor 
nered  hat,  seated  in  the  stern  of  a  jolly  boat  who  used  to  be 
seen  about  Hell  Gate  in  stormy  weather;  and  who  went  by  the 
name  of  the  Pirate's  Spuke,  or  Pirate's  Ghost,  because  I  never 
could  meet  with  any  person  of  stanch  credibility  who  professed 
to  have  seen  this  spectrum ;  unless  it  were  the  widow  of  Manus 
Conklin,  the-  blacksmith  of  Frog's  Neck,  but  then,  poor  woman, 
she  was  a  little  purblind,  and  might  have  been  mistaken; 
though  they  said  she  saw  farther  than  other  folks  in  the  dark. 
All  this,  however,  was  but  little  satisfactory  in  regard  to  the 
tales  of  buried  money  about  which  I  was  most  curious ;  and  the 
following  was  all  that  I  could  for  a  long  time  collect  that  had 
anything  like  an  air  of  authenticity. 


KIDD  THE  PIRATE. 

IN  old  times,  just  after  the  territory  of  the  New  Netherlands 
had  been  wrested  from  the  hands  of  their  High  Mightinesses, 
the  Lords  States  General  of  Holland,  by  Charles  the  Second, 
and  while  it  was  as  yet  in  an  unquiet  state,  the  province  was  a 
favorite  resort  of  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  and  particularly  of 
buccaneers.  These  were  piratical  rovers  of  the  deep,  who  made 

*  For  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  Devil  and  his  Stepping  Stones,  see  the 
learned  memoir  read  before  the  New  York  Historical  Society  since  the  death  of 
Mr.  Knickerbocker,  by  his  friend,  an  eminent  jurist  of  the  place. 


210  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

sad  work  in  times  of  peace  among  the  Spanish  settlements  and 
Spanish  merchant  ships.  They  took  advantage  of  the  easy  ac 
cess  to  the  harbor  of  the  Manhattoes,  and  of  the  laxity  of  its 
scarcely-organized  government,  to  make  it  a  kind  of  rendez 
vous,  where  they  might  dispose  of  their  ill-gotten  spoils,  and 
concert  new  depredations.  Crews  of  these  desperadoes,  the 
runagates  of  every  country  and  clime,  might  be  seen  swagger 
ing,  in  open  day,  about  the  streets  of  the  little  burgh;  elbowing 
its  quiet  Mynheers;  trafficking  away  their  rich  outlandish 
plunder,  at  half  price,  to  the  wary  merchant,  and  then  squan 
dering  their  gains  in  taverns;  drinking,  gambling,  singing, 
swearing,  shouting,  and  astounding  the  neighborhood  with 
sudden  brawl  and  ruffian  revelry. 

At  length  the  indignation  of  government  was  aroused,  and  it 
was  determined  to  ferret  out  this  vermin  brood  from  the  colo- 
noies.  Great  consternation  took  place  among  the  pirates  on 
finding  justice  in  pursuit  of  them,  and  their  old  haunts  turned 
to  places  of  peril.  They  secreted  their  money  and  jewels  in 
lonely  out-of-the-way  places ;  buried  them  about  the  wild  shores 
of  the  rivers  and  sea-coast,  and  dispersed  themselves  over  the 
face  of  the  country. 

Among  the  agents  employed  to  hunt  them  by  sea  was  the 
renowned  Captain  Kidd.  He  had  long  been  a  hardy  adven 
turer,  a  kind  of  equivocal  borderer,  half  trader,  half  smuggler, 
with  a  tolerable  dash  of  the  pickaroon.  He  had  traded  for 
some  time  among  the  pirates,  lurking  about  the  seas  in  a  little 
rakish,  musquito-built  vessel,  prying  into  all  kinds  of  odd  places, 
as  busy  as  a  Mother  Carey's  chicken  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

This  nondescript  personage  was  pitched  upon  by  government 
as  the  very  man  to  command  a  vessel  fitted  out  to  cruise 
against  the  pirates,  since  he  knew  all  their  haunts  and  lurking- 
places:  acting  upon  the  shrewd  old  maxim  of  "  setting  a  rogue 
to  catch  a  rogue."  Kidd  accordingly  sailed  from  New  York  in 
the  Adventure  galley,  gallantly  armed  and  duly  commissioned, 
and  steered  his  course  to  the  Madeiras,  to  Bonavista,  to  Mada 
gascar,  and  cruised  at  the  entrance  of  the  Red  Sea.  Instead, 
however,  of  making  war  upon  the  pirates,  he  turned  pirate 
himself :  captured  friend  or  foe ;  enriched  himself  with  the  spoils 
of  a  wealthy  Indiaman,  manned  by  Moors,  though  commanded 
by  an  Englishman,  and  having  disposed  of  his  prize,  had  the 
hardihood  to  return  to  Boston,  laden  with  wealth,  with  a  crew 
of  his  comrades  at  his  heels. 

His  fame  had  preceded  him.    The  alarm  was  given  of  the 


KIDD   THE  PIRATE.  211 

reappearance  0/  this  cut-purse  of  the  ocean.  Measures  were 
taken  for  his  arrest ;  but  he  had  time,  it  is  said,  to  bury  the 
greater  part  of  his  treasures.  He  even  attempted  to  draw  his 
sword  and  defend  himself  when  arrested ;  but  was  secured  and 
thrown  inth  prison,  with  several  of  his  followers.  They  were 
carried  to  England  in  a  frigate,  where  they  were  tried,  con 
demned,  and  hanged  at  Execution  Dock.  Kidd  died  hard,  for 
the  rope  with  which  he  was  first  tied  up  broke  with  his  weight, 
and  he  tumbled  to  the  ground ;  he  was  tied  up  a  second  time, 
and  effectually;  from  whence  arose  the  story  of  his  having 
been  twice  hanged. 

Such  is  the  main  outline  of  Kidd's  history ;  but  it  has  given 
birth  to  an  innumerable  progeny  of  traditions.  The  circum 
stance  of  his  having  buried  great  treasures  of  gold  and  jewels 
after  returning  from  his  cruising  set  the  brains  of  all  the  good 
people  along  the  coast  in  a  ferment.  There  were  rumors  on 
rumors  of  great  sums  found  here  and  there ;  sometimes  in  one 
part  of  the  country,  sometimes  in  another ;  of  trees  and  rocks 
bearing  mysterious  marks ;  doubtless  indicating  the  spots  where 
treasure  lay  hidden.  Of  coins  found  with  Moorish  characters, 
the  plunder  of  Kidd's  eastern  prize,  but  which  the  common 
people  took  for  diabolical  or  magic  inscriptions. 

Some  reported  the  spoils  to  have  been  buried  in  solitary  un 
settled  places  about  Plymouth  and  Cape  Cod ;  many  other  parts 
of  the  Eastern  coast,  also,  and  various  places  in  Long  Island 
Sound,  have  been  gilded  by  these  rumors,  and  have  been  ran 
sacked  by  adventueous  money-diggers. 

In  all  the  stories  of  these  enterprises  the  devil  played  a  con 
spicuous  part.  Either  he  was  conciliated  by  ceremonies  and 
invocations,  or  some  bargain  or  compact  was  made  with  him. 
Still  he  was  sure  to  play  the  money-diggers  some  slippery  trick. 
Some  had  succeeded  so  far  as  to  touch  the  iron  chest  which 
contained  the  treasure,  when  some  bafflng  circumstance  was 
sure  to  take  place.  Either  the  earth  would  fall  in  and  fill  up 
the  pit  or  some  direful  noise  or  apparition  would  throw  the 
party  into  a  panic  and  frighten  them  from  the  place;  and 
sometimes  the  devil  himself  would  appear  and  bear  off  the  prize 
from  their  very  grasp ;  and  if  they  visited  the  place  on  the  next 
day,  not  a  trace  would  be  seen  of  their  labors  of  the  preceding 
night. 

Such  were  the  vague  rumors  which  for  a  long  time  tantalized 
without  gratifying  my  curiosity  on  the  interesting  subject  of 
these  pirate  traditions.  There  is  nothing  in  this  world  so  hard 


212  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

to  get  at  as  truth.  I  sought  among  my  favorite  sources  of 
authentic  information,  the  oldest  inhabitants,  and  particularly 
the  old  Dutch  wiues  of  the  province ;  but  though  I  flatter  myself 
I  am  better  versed  than  most  men  in  the  curious  history  of  my 
native  province,  yet  for  a  long  tune  my  inquiries  were  un 
attended  with  any  substantial  result. 

At  length  it  happened,  one  calm  day  in  the  latter  part  of 
summer,  that  I  was  relaxing  myself  from  the  toils  of  severe 
study  by  a  day's  amusement  in  fishing  in  those  waters  which 
had  been  the  favorite  resort  of  my  boyhood.  I  was  in  company 
with  several  worthy  burghers  of  my  native  city.  Our  sport 
was  indifferent;  the  fish  did  not  bite  freely;  and  we  had  fre 
quently  changed  our  fishing  ground  without  bettering  our 
luck.  We  at  length  anchored  close  under  a  ledge  of  rocky 
coast,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  island  of  Manhata.  It  was  a 
still,  warm  day.  The  stream  whirled  and  dimpled  by  us  with 
out  a  wave  or  even  a  ripple,  and  every  thing  was  so  calm  and 
quiet  that  it  was  almost  startling  when  the  kingfisher  would 
pitch  himsel  from  the  branch  of  some  dry  tree,  and  after  sus 
pending  himself  for  a  moment  in  the  air  to  take  his  aim,  would 
souse  into  the  smooth  water  after  his  prey.  While  we  were 
lolling  in  our  boat,  half  drowsy  with  the  warm  stillness  of  the 
day  and  the  dullness  of  our  sport,  one  of  our  party,  a  worthy 
alderman,  was  overtaken  by  a  slumber,  and,  as  he  dozed,  suf 
fered  the  sinker  of  his  drop-line  to  lie  upon  the  bottom  of  the 
river.  On  waking,  he  found  he  had  caught  something  of 
importance,  from  the  weight ;  on  drawing  it  to  the  surface,  we 
were  much  surprised  to  find  a  long  pistol  of  very  curious  and 
outlandish  fashion,  which,  from  its  rusted  condition,  and  its 
stock  being  worm-eaten  and  covered  with  barnacles,  appeared 
to  have  been  a  long  time  under  water.  The  unexpected  appear 
ance  of  this  document  of  warfare  occasioned  much  speculation 
among  my  pacific  companions.  One  supposed  it  to  have  fallen 
there  during  the  revolutionary  war.  Another,  from  the  peculi 
arity  of  its  fashion,  attributed  it  to  the  voyagers  in  the  earliest 
days  of  the  settlement;  perchance  to  the  renowned  Adrian 
Block,  who  explored  the  Sound  and  discovered  Block  Island, 
since  so  noted  for  its  cheese.  But  a  third,  after  regarding  it 
for  some  time,  pronounced  it  to  be  of  veritable  Spanish  work 
manship. 

"I'll  warrant,"  said  he,  "if  this  pistol  could  talk  it  would  tell 
strange  stories  of  hard  fights  among  the  Spanish  Dons.  I've 
not  a  doubt  but  it's  arelique  of  the  buccaneers  of  old  times." 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM  WALKER  213 

"Like  enough,"  said  another  of  the  party.  "There  was 
Bradish  the  pirate,  who  at  the  time  Lord  Bellamont  made  such 
a  stir  after  the  buccaneers,  buried  money  and  jewels  gome- 
where  in  these  parts  or  on  Long-Island ;  and  then  there  was 
Captain  Kidd— " 

' '  Ah,  that  Kidd  was  a  daring  dog, "  said  an  iron-faced  Cape 
Cod  whaler.  "There's  a  fine  old  song  about  him,  all  to  the 
tune  of 

'  My  name  is  Robert  Kidd, 
As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed.' 

And  it  tells  how  he  gained  the  devil's  good  graces  by  burying 
the  Bible: 

'  I  had  the  Bible  in  my  hand, 

As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
And  I  buried  it  in  the  sand, 
As  I  sailed.' 

Egad,  if  this  pistol  had  belonged  to  him  I  should  set  some 
store  by  it  out  of  sheer  curiosity.  Ah,  well,  there's  an  odd  story 
I  have  heard  about  one  Tom  Walker,  who,  they  say,  dug  up 
some  of  Kidd's  buried  money ;  and  as  the  fish  don't  seem  to 
bite  at  present,  I'll  tell  it  to  you  to  pass  away  time." 


THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM  WALKER. 

A  FEW  miles  from  Boston,  in  Massachusetts,  there  is  a  deep 
inlet  winding  several  miles  into  the  interior  of  the  country 
from  Charles  Bay,  and  terminating  in  a  thickly-wooded 
swamp,  or  morass.  On  one  side  of  this  inlet  is  a  beautiful 
dark  grove ;  on  the  opposite  side  the  land  rises  abruptly  from  the 
water's  edge,  into  a  high  ridge  on  which  grow  a  few  scattered 
oaks  of  great  age  and  immense  size.  It  was  under  one  of  these 
gigantic  trees,  according  to  old  stories,  that  Kidd  the  pirate 
buried  his  treasure.  The  inlet  allowed  a  facility  to  bring  the 
money  in  a  boat  secretly  and  at  night  to  the  very  foot  of  the 
hill.  The  elevation  of  the  place  permitted  a  good  look-out  to  be 
kept  that  no  one  was  at  hand,  while  the  remarkable  trees 
formed  good  landmarks  by  which  the  place  might  easily  be 
found  again.  The  old  stories  add,  moreover,  that  the  devil 
presided  at  the  hiding  of  the  money,  and  took  it  under  his 
guardianship ;  but  this,  it  is  well-known,  he  always  does  with 


214  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

buried  treasure,  particularly  when  it  has  been  ill  gotten.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  Kidd  never  returned  to  recover  his  wealth; 
being  shortly  after  seized  at  Boston,  sent  out  to  England,  and 
there  hanged  for  a  pirate. 

About  the  year  1727,  just  at  the  time  when  earthquakes  were 
prevalent  in  New-England,  and  shook  many  tall  sinners  down 
upon  their  knees,  there  lived  near  this  place  a  meagre  miserly 
fellow  of  the  name  of  Tom  Walker.  He  had  a  wife  as  miserly 
as  himself ;  they  were  so  miserly  that  they  even  conspired  to 
cheat  each  other.  Whatever  the  woman  could  lay  hands  on 
she  hid  away ;  a  hen  could  not  cackle  but  she  was  on  the  alert 
to  secure  the  new-laid  egg.  Her  husband  was  continually 
prying  about  to  detect  her  secret  hoards,  and  many  and  fierce 
were  the  conflicts  that  took  place  about  what  ought  to  have 
been  common  property.  They  lived  in  a  f orlorn-looking  house, 
that  stood  alone  and  had  an  air  of  starvation.  A  few  straggling 
savin  trees,  emblems  of  sterility,  grew  near  it ;  no  smoke  ever 
curled  from  its  chimney;  no  traveller  stopped  at  its  door. 
VA  miserable  horse,  whose  ribs  were  as  articulate  as  the  bars  of 
a  gridiron,  stalked  about  a  field  where  a  thin  carpet  of  moss, 
scarcely  covering  the  ragged  beds  of  pudding-stone,  tantalized 
and  balked  his  hunger ;  and  sometimes  he  would  lean  his  head 
over  the  fence,  looked  piteously  at  the  passer-by,  and  seem  to 
petition  deliverance  from  this  land  of  famine.  The  house  and 
its  inmates  had  altogether  a  bad  name.  Tom's  wife  was  a  tall 
termagant,  fierce  of  temper,  loud  of  tongue,  and  strong  of  arm. 
Her  voice  was  often  heard  in  wordy  warfare  with  her  husband ; 
and  his  face  sometimes  showed  signs  that  their  conflicts  were 
not  confined  to  words.  No  one  ventured,  however,  to  interfere 
between  them ;  the  lonely  wayfarer  shrunk  within  him  gel  f  at 
the  horrid  clamor  and  clapper-clawing ;  eyed  the  den  of  discord 
askance,  and  hurried  on  his  way,  rejoicing,  if  a  bachelor,  in 
his  celibacy. 

One  day  that  Tom  Walker  had  been  to  a  distant  part  of  the 
neighborhood,  he  took  what  he  considered  a  short  cut  home 
wards  through  the  swamp.  Like  most  short  cuts,  it  was  an 
ill-chosen  route.  The  swamp  was  thickly  grown  with  great 
gloomy  pines  and  hemlocks,  some  of  them  ninety  feet  high; 
which  made  it  dark  at  noon-day,  and  a  retreat  for  all  the  owls 
of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  full  of  pits  and  quagmires,  partly 
covered  with  weeds  and  mosses ;  where  the  green  surface  often 
betrayed  the  traveller  into  a  gulf  of  black  smothering  mud  ; 
there  were  also  dark  and  stagnant  pools,  the  abodes  of  the  tad 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM  WALKER.  215 

pole,  the  bull-frog,  and  the  water-snake,  and  where  trunks  of 
pines  and  hemlocks  lay  half  drowned,  half  rotting,  looking 
like  alligators,  sleeping  in  the  mire. 

Tom  had  long  been  picking  his  way  cautiously  through  this 
treacherous  forest ;  stepping  from  tuft  to  tuft  of  rushes  and 
roots  which  afforded  precarious  footholds  among  deep  sloughs ;    ' 
or  pacing  carefully,  like  a  cat,  among  the  prostrate  trunks  of 
trees ;  startled  now  and  then  by  the  sudden  screaming  of  the 
bittern,  or  the  quacking  of  a  wild  duck,  rising  on  the  wing  from 
some  solitary  pool.     At  length  he  arrived  at  a  piece  of  firm, 
ground,  which  ran  out  like  a  peninsula  into  the  deep  bosom  of  \ 
the  swamp.    It  had  been  one  of  the  strongholds  of  the  Indians    \ 
during  their  wars  with  the  first  colonists.     Here  they  had 
thrown  up  a  kind  of  fort  which  they  had  looked  upon  as  almost 
impregnable,  and  had  used  as  a  place  of  refuge  for  their  squaws 
and  children.    Nothing  remained  of  the  Indian  fort  but  a  few 
embankments  gradually  sinking  to  the  level  of  the  surrounding 
earth,  and  already  overgrown  in  part  by  oaks  and  other  forest 
trees,  the  foliage  of  which  formed  a  contrast  to  the  dark  pines 
and  hemlocks  of  the  swamp. 

It  was  late  in  the  dusk  of  evening  that  Tom  Walker  reached 
the  old  fort,  and  he  paused  there  for  a  while  to  rest  himself. 
Any  one  but  he  would  have  felt  unwilling  to  linger  in  this 
lonely,  melancholy  place,  for  the  common  people  had  a  bad 
opinion  of  it  from  the  stories  handed  down  from  the  time  of 
the  Indian  wars ;  when  it  was  asserted  that  the  savages  held 
incantations  here  and  made  sacrifices  to  the  evil  spirit.  Tom 
Walker,  however,  was  not  a  man  to  be  troubled  with  any  fears 
of  the  kind. 

He  reposed  himself  for  some  time  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
hemlock,  listening  to  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  and  delv 
ing  with  his  walking-staff  into  a  mound  of  black  mould  at  his 
feet.  As  he  turned  up  the  soil  unconsciously,  his  staff  struck 
against  something  hard.  He  raked  it  out  of  the  vegetable 
mould,  and  lo !  a  cloven  skull  with  an  Indian  tomahawk  buried 
deep  in  it,  lay  before  him.  The  rust  on  the  weapon  showed  the 
time  that  had  elapsed  since  this  death  blow  had  been  given. 
It  was  a  dreary  memento  of  the  fierce  struggle  that  had  taken 
place  in  this  last  foothold  of  the  Indian  warriors. 

"  Humph !"  said  Tom  Walker,  as  he  gave  the  skull  a  kick  to 
shake  the  dirt  from  it. 

"Let  that  skull  alone J"  said  a  gruff  voice. 

Tom.  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  beheld  a  great  black  man,  seated 


216  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

directly  opposite  him  on  the  stump  of  a  tree.  He  was  exceed 
ingly  surprised,  having  neither  seen  nor  heard  any  one  approach, 
and  he  was  still  more  perplexed  on  observing,  as  well  as  the 
gathering  gloom  would  permit,  that  the  stranger  was  neither 
negro  nor  Indian.  It  is  true,  he  was  dressed  in  a  rude,  half 
Indian  garb,  and  had  a  red  belt  or  sash  swathed  round  his  body, 
but  bis  face  was  neither  black  nor  copper  color,  but  swarthy 
and  dingy  and  begrimed  with  soot,  as  if  he  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  toil  among  fires  and  forges.  He  had  a  shock  of  coarse 
black  hair,  that  stood  out  from  his  head  in  all  directions ;  and 
bore  an  axe  on  his  shoulder. 
He  scowled  for  a  moment  at  Tom  with  a  pair  of  great  red 


"What  are  you  doing  in  my  grounds?"  said  the  black  man, 
with  a  hoarse  growling  voice. 

"Your  grounds?"  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer;  "no  more  your 
grounds  than  mine:  they  belong  to  Deacon  Peabody." 

"Deacon Peabody  be  d d,"  said  the  stranger,  " as  I  flatter 

myself  he  will  be,  if  he  does  not  look  more  to  his  own  sins  and 
less  to  his  neighbor's.  Look  yonder,  and  see  how  Deacon  Pea- 
body  is  faring. " 

Tom  looked  in  the  direction  that  the  stranger  pointed,  and 
beheld  one  of  the  great  trees,  fair  and  nourishing  without,  but 
rotten  at  the  core,  and  saw  that  it  had  been  nearly  hewn 
through,  so  that  the  first  high  wind  was  likely  to  blow  it  down. 
!  On  the  bark  of  the  tree  was  scored  the  name  of  Deacon  Pea- 
body.  He  now  looked  round  and  found  most  of  the  tall  trees 
marked  with  the  names  of  some  great  men  of  the  colony,  and 
all  more  or  less  scored  by  the  axe.  The  one  on  which  he  had 
been  seated,  and  which  had  evidently  just  been  hewn  down, 
bore  the  name  of  Crowninshield ;  and  he  recollected  a  mighty 
rich  man  of  that  name,  who  made  a  vulgar  display  of  wealth, 
which  it  was  whispered  he  had  acquired  by  buccaneering. 

"He's  just  ready  for  burning!"  said  the  black  man,  with  a 
growl  of  triumph.  "  You  see  I  am  likely  to  have  a  good  stock 
of  firewood  for  winter." 

"But  what  right  have  you,"  said  Tom,  "to  cut  down  Deacon 
Peabody 's  timber?" 

"The  right  of  prior  claim, "  said  the  other.  "This  woodland 
belonged  to  me  long  before  one  of  your  white-faced  race  put 
foot  upon  the  soil. " 

"And  pray,  who  are  you,  if  I  may  be  so  bold?"  said  Tom. 

"  Oh,  I  go  by  various  names.    I  am  the  Wild  Huntsman  in 


THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM  WALKER.  217 

some  countries ;  the  Black  Miner  in  others.  In  fhis  neighbor, 
hood  I  am  known  by  the  name  of  the  Black  Woodsman.  I  am 
he  to  whom  the  red  men  devoted  this  spot,  and  now  and  then 
roasted  a  white  man  by  way  of  sweet-smelling  sacrifice.  Since 
the  red  men  have  been  exterminated  by  you  white  savages,  I 
amuse  myself  by  presiding  at  the  persecutions  of  quakers  and 
anabaptists ;  I  am  the  great  patron  and  prompter  of  slave  dea-" 
lers,  and  the  grand  master  of  the  Salem  witches." 

"The  upshot  of  all  which  is,  that,  if  I  mistake  not,"  said 
Tom,  sturdily,  "you  are  he  commonly  called  Old  Scratch." 

"The  same  at  your  service!"  replied  the  black  man,  with  a 
half  civil  nod. 

Such  was  the  opening  of  this  interview,  according  to  the  old 
story,  though  it  has  almost  too  familiar  an  air  to  be  credited. 
One  would  think  that  to  meet  with  such  a  singular  personage 
in  this  wild,  lonely  place,  would  have  shaken  any  man's  nerves : 
but  Tom  was  a  hard-minded  fellow,  not  easily  daunted,  and  he 
had  lived  so  long  with  a  termagant  wife,  that  he  did  not  even 
fear  the  devil. 

It  is  said  that  after  this  commencement  they  had  a  long  and 
earnest  conversation  together,  as  Tom  returned  homewards. 
The  black  man  told  him  of  great  sums  of  money  which  had 
been  buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate,  under  the  oak  trees  on  the  high 
ridge  not  far  from  the  morass.  All  these  were  under  his  com 
mand  and  protected  by  his  power,  so  that  none  could  find  them 
but  such  as  propitiated  his  favor.  These  he  offered  to  place 
within  Tom  Walker's  reach,  having  conceived  an  especial  kind 
ness  for  him:  but  they  were  to  be  had  only  on  certain  con 
ditions.  What  these  conditions  were,  may  easily  be  surmised, 
though  Tom  never  disclosed  them  publicly.  They  must  have 
been  very  hard,  for  he  required  time  to  think  of  them,  and  he 
was  not  a  man  to  stick  at  trifles  where  money  was  in  view. 
When  they  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  swamp  the  stranger 
paused. 

"What  proof  have  I  that  all  you  have  been  telling  me  is 
true?"  said  Tom. 

"There  is  my  signature,"  said  the  black  man,  pressing  his 
finger  on  Tom's  forehead.  So  saying,  he  turned  off  among  the 
thickets  of  the  swamp,  and  seemed,  as  Tom  said,  to  go  down, 
down,  down,  into  the  earth,  until  nothing  but  his  head  and 
shoulders  could  be  seen,  and  so  on  until  he  totally  disap 
peared. 

When  Tom  reached  home  he  found  the  black  print  of  a  fin- 


218  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

ger  burnt,  as  it  were,  into  his  forehead,  which  nothing  could 
obliterate. 

The  first  news  his  wife  had  to  tell  him  was  the  sudden  death 
of  Absalom  Crowninshield,  the  rich  buccaneer.  It  was 
announced  in  the  papers  with  the  usual  nourish,  that  ' '  a  great 
man  had  fallen  in  Israel." 

Tom  recollected  the  tree  which  his  black  friend  had  just  hewn 
down,  and  which  was  ready  for  burning.  "  Let  the  freebooter 
roast,"  said  Tom,  "who  cares!"  He  now  felt  convinced  that 
all  he  had  heard  and  seen  was  no  illusion. 

He  was  not  prone  to  let  his  wife  into  his  confidence ;  but  as 
this  was  an  uneasy  secret,  he  willingly  shared  it  with  her.  All 
her  avarice  was  awakened  at  the  mention  of  hidden  gold,  and 
she  urged  her  husband  to  comply  with  the  black  man's  terms 
and  secure  what  would  make  them  wealthy  for  life.  However 
Tom  might  have  felt  disposed  to  sell  himself  to  the  devil,  he 
was  determined  not  to  do  so  to  oblige  his  wife;  so  he  flatly 
refused  out  of  the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction.  Many  and  bit 
ter  were  the  quarrels  they  had  on  the  subject,  but  the  more 
she  talked  the  more  resolute  was  Tom  not  to  be  damned  to 
please  her.  At  length  she  determined  to  drive  the  bargain  on 
her  own  account,  and  if  she  succeeded,  to  keep  all  the  gam  to 
herself. 

Being  of  the  same  fearless  temper  as  her  husband,  she  sat  off 
for  the  old  Indian  fort  towards  the  close  of  a  summer's  day. 
She  was  many  hour's  absent.  When  she  came  back  she  was 
reserved  and  sullen  in  her  replies.  She  spoke  something  of  a 
black  man  whom  she  had  met  about  twilight,  hewing  at  the 
root  of  a  tall  tree.  He  was  sulky,  however,  and  would  not 
come  to  terms ;  she  was  to  go  again  with  a  propitiatory  offer 
ing,  but  what  it  was  she  forebore  to  say. 

The  next  evening  she  sat  off  again  for  the  swamp,  with  her 
apron  heavily  laden.  Tom  waited  and  waited  for  her,  but  in 
vain :  midnight  came,  but  she  did  not  make  her  appearance ; 
morning,  noon,  night  returned,  but  still  she  did  not  come. 
Tom  now  grew  uneasy  for  her  safety ;  especially  as  he  found 
she  had  carried  off  in  her  apron  the  silver  tea  pot  and  spoons 
and  every  portable  article  of  value.  Another  night  elapsed, 
another  morning  came;  but  no  wife.  In  a  word,  she  was 
never  heard  of  more. 

What  was  her  real  fate  nobody  knows,  in  consequence  of  so 
many  pretending  to  know.  It  is  one  of  those  facts  that  have 
become  confounded  by  a  variety  of  historians.  Some  asserted 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM  WALKER.  219 

that  she  lost  her  way  among  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  swamp 
and  sunk  into  some  pit  or  slough ;  others,  more  uncharitable, 
hinted  that  she  had  eloped  with  the  household  booty,  and 
made  off  to  some  other  province ;  while  others  assert  that  the 
tempter  had  decoyed  her  into  a  dismal  quagmire,  on  top  of 
which  her  hat  was  found  lying.  In  confirmation  of  this,  it 
was  said  a  great  black  man  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder 
was  seen  late  that  very  evening  coming  out  of  the  swamp, 
carrying  a  bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron,  with  an  air  of  surly 
triumph. 

The  most  current  and  probable  story,  however,  observes  that 
Tom  Walker  grew  so  anxious  about  the  fate  of  his  wife  and 
his  property  that  he  sat  out  at  length  to  seek  them  both 
at  the  Indian  fort.  During  a  long  summer's  afternoon  he 
searched  about  the  gloomy  place,  but  no  wife  was  to  be  seen. 
He  called  her  name  repeatedly,  but  she  was  no  where  to  be 
heard.  The  bittern  alone  responded  to  his  voice,  as  he  flew 
screaming  by ;  or  the  bull-frog  croaked  dolefully  from  a  neigh 
boring  pool.  At  length,  it  is  said,  just  in  the  brown  hour  of 
twilight,  when  the  owls  began  to  hoot  and  the  bats  to  flit  about, 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  clamor  of  carrion  crows  that 
were  hovering  about  a  cypress  tree.  He  looked  and  beheld  a 
bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron  and  hanging  in  the  branches  of 
a  tree ;  with  a  great  vulture  perched  hard  by,  as  if  keeping 
watch  upon  it.  He  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  recognized  his 
wife's  apron,  and  supposed  it  to  contain  the  household  valu 
ables. 

' '  Let  us  get  hold  of  the  property, "  said  he  consolingly  to  him 
self,  "and  we  will  endeavor  to  do  without  the  woman." 

As  he  scrambled  up  the  tree  the  vulture  spread  its  wide 
wings,  and  sailed  off  screaming  into  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
forest.     Tom  seized  the  check  apron,  but,  woful  sight!  found" 
nothing  but  a  heart  and  liver  tied  up  in  it. 

Such,  according  to  the  most  authentic  old  story,  was  all  that 
was  to  be  found  of  Tom's  wife.  She  had  probably  attempted 
to  deal  with  the  black  man  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  deal 
with  her  husband ;  but  though  a  female  scold  is  generally  con 
sidered  a  match  for  the  devil,  yet  in  this  instance  she  appears 
to  have  had  the  worst  of  it.  She  must  have  died  game,  how 
ever  :  from  the  part  that  remained  unconquered.  Indeed,  it  is 
said  Tom  noticed  many  prints  of  cloven  feet  deeply  stamped 
about  the  tree,  and  several  handfuls  of  hair  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  plucked  from  the  coarse  black  shock  of  the 


220  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

woodsman.  Tom  knew  his  wife's  prowess  by  experience.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  looked  at  the  signs  of  a  fierce 
clapper-clawing.  "Egad,"  said  he  to  himself,  "Old  Scratch 
must  have  had  a  tough  time  of  it !" 

Tom  consoled  himself  for  the  loss  of  his  property  by  the  loss 
of  his  wife ;  for  he  was  a  li ttle  of  a  philosopher.  He  even  felt 
something  like  gratitude  towards  the  black  woodsman,  who  he 
considered  had  done  him  a  kindness.  He  sought,  therefore,  to 
cultivate  a  farther  acquaintance  with  him,  but  for  some  time 
without  success;  the  old  black  legs  played  shy,  for  whatever 
people  may  think,  he  is  not  always  to  be  had  for  calling  for ; 
he  knows  how  to  play  his  cards  when  pretty  sure  of  his  game. 

At  length,  it  is  said,  when  delay  had  whetted  Tom's  eager 
ness  to  the  quick,  and  prepared  him  to  agree  to  any  thing 
rather  than  not  gain  the  promised  treasure,  he  met  the  black 
man  one  evening  in  his  usual  woodman  dress,  with  his  axe  on 
his  shoulder,  sauntering  along  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  and 
humming  a  tune.  He  affected  to  receive  Tom's  advance  with 
great  indifference,  made  brief  replies,  and  went  on  humming 
his  tune. 

By  degrees,  however,  Tom  brought  him  to  business,  and 
they  began  to  haggle  about  the  terms  on  which  the  former  was 
to  have  the  pirate's  treasure.  There  was  one  condition  which 
need  not  be  mentioned,  being  generally  understood  in  all  cases 
where  the  devil  grants  favors;  but  there  were  others  about 
which,  though  of  less  importance,  he  was  inflexibly  obstinate. 
He  insisted  that  the  money  found  through  his  means  should 
be  employed  in  his  service.  He  proposed,  therefore,  that  Tom 
should  employ  it  in  the  black  traffic ;  that  is  to  say,  that  he 
•should  fit  out  a  slave  ship.  This,  however,  Tom  resolutely  re 
fused  ;  he  was  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience ;  but  the  devil  him 
self  could  not  tempt  him  to  turn  slave  dealer. 

Finding  Tom  so  squeamish  on  this  point,  he  did  not  insist 
upon  it,  but  proposed  instead  that  he  should  turn  usurer ;  the 
»devil  being  extremely  anxious  for  the  increase  of  usurers,  look 
ing  upon  them  as  his  peculiar  people. 

To  this  no  objections  were  made,  for  it  was  just  to  Tom's 
taste. 

"You  shall  open  a  broker's  shop  in  Boston  next  month," 
said  the  black  man. 

"  111  do  it  to-morrow,  if  you  wish,"  said  Tom  Walker. 

"You  shall  lend  money  at  two  per  cent  a  month." 

"Egad,  I'll  charge  four!"  replied  Tom  Walker. 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM  WALKER.  221 

"You  shall  extort  bonds,  foreclose  mortgages,  drive  the  mer 
chant  to  bankruptcy " 

"I'll  drive  him  to  the  d 1,"  cried  Tom  Walker,  eagerly. 

"You  are  the  usurer  for  my  money!"  said  the  black  legs, 
with  delight.  "  When  will  you  want  the  rhino?" 

' '  This  very  night. " 

"Done!"  said  the  devil. 

"Done !"  said  Tom  Walker. — So  they  shook  hands  and  struck 
a  bargain. 

A  few  days'  time  saw  Tom  Walker  seated  behind  his  desk  in 
a  counting  house  in  Boston.  His  reputation  for  a  ready- 
moneyed  man,  who  would  lend  money  out  for  a  good  consider 
ation,  soon  spread  abroad.  Every  body  remembers  the  days  of 
Governor  Belcher,  when  money  Avas  particularly  scarce.  It 
was  a  time  of  paper  credit.  The  country  had  been  deluged 
with  government  bills;  the  famous  Land  Bank  had  been  estab 
lished  ;  there  had  been  a  rage  for  speculating ;  the  people  had 
run  mad  with  schemes  for  new  settlements ;  for  building  cities 
in  the  wilderness;  land  jobbers  went  about  with  maps  of 
grants,  and  townships,  and  Eldorados,  lying  nobody  knew 
where,  but  which  every  body  was  ready  to  purchase.  In  a 
word,  the  great  speculating  fever  which  breaks  out  every  now 
and  then  in  the  country,  had  raged  to  an  alarming  degree,  and 
body  was  dreaming  of  making  sudden  fortunes  from  nothing. 
As  usual,  the  fever  had  subsided ;  the  dream  had  gone  off,  and 
the  imaginary  fortunes  with  it ;  the  patients  were  left  in  doleful 
plight,  and  the  whole  country  resounded  with  the  consequent 
cry  of  ' '  hard  times. " 

A.t  this  propitious  time  of  public  distress  did  Tom  Walker  set 
up  as  a  usurer  in  Boston.  His  door  was  soon  thronged  by  cus 
tomers.  The  needy  and  the  adventurous ;  the  gambling  specu 
lator;  the  dreaming  land  jobber;  the  thriftless  tradesman ;  the 
merchant  with  cracked  credit;  in  short,  every  one  driven  to 
raise  money  by  desperate  means  and  desperate  sacrifices,  hur 
ried  to  Tom  Walker. 

Thus  Tom  was  the  universal  friend  of  the  needy,  and  he 
acted  like  a  ' '  friend  in  need ;"  that  is  to  say,  he  always  exacted 
good  pay  and  good  security.  In  proportion  to  the  distress  of 
the  applicant  was  the  hardness  of  his  terms.  He  accumulated 
bonds  and  mortgages ;  gradually  squeezed  his  customers  closer 
and  closer;  and  sent  them,  at  length,  dry  as  a  sponge  from  his 
door. 

In  this  way  he  made  money  hand  over  hand ;  became  a  rich 


222  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

and  mighty  man,  and  exalted  his  cocked  hat  upon  'change. 
He  built  himself,  as  usual,  a  vast  house,  out  of  ostentation ;  but 
left  the  greater  part  of  it  unfinished  and  unfurnished  out  of 
parsimony.  He  even  set  up  a  carriage  in  the  fullness  of  his 
vain-glory,  though  he  nearly  starved  the  horses  which  drew  it ; 
and  as  the  ungreased  wheels  groaned  and  screeched  on  the  axle- 
trees,  you  would  have  thought  you  heard  the  souls  of  the  poor 
debtors  he  was  squeezing. 

As  Tom  waxed  old,  however,  he  grew  thoughtful.  Having 
secured  the  good  things  of  this  world,  he  began  to  feel  anxious 
about  those  of  the  next.  He  thought  with  regret  on  the  bargain 
he  had  made  with  his  black  friend,  and  set  his  wits  to  work  to 
cheat  him  out  of  the  conditions.  He  became,  therefore,  all  of  a 
sudden,  a  violent  church-goer.  He  prayed  loudly  and  strenu 
ously  as  if  heaven  were  to  be  taken  by  force  of  lungs.  Indeed, 
one  might  always  tell  when  he  had  sinned  most  during  the 
week,  by  the  clamor  of  his  Sunday  devotion.  The  quiet  Chris 
tians  who  had  been  modestly  and  steadfastly  travelling  Zion- 
ward,  were  struck  with  self-reproach  at  seeing  themselves  so 
guddenly  outstripped  in  their  career  by  this  new-made  convert. 
Tom  was  as  rigid  in  religious,  as  in  money  matters ;  he  was  a 
stern  supervisor  and  censurer  of  his  neighbors,  and  seemed  to 
think  every  sin  entered  up  to  their  account  became  a  credit  on 
his  own  side  of  the  page.  He  even  talked  of  the  expediency  of 
reviving  the  persecution  of  quakers  and  anabaptists.  In  a 
•  word,  Tom's  zeal  became  as  notorious  as  his  riches. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  this  strenuous  attention  to  forms,  Tom 
had  a  lurking  dread  that  the  devil,  after  all,  would  have  his 
due.  That  he  might  not  be  taken  unawares,  therefore,  it  is  said 
he  always  carried  a  small  Bible  in  his  coat  pocket.  He  had 
also  a  great  folio  Bible  on  his  counting-house  desk,  and  would 
frequently  be  found  reading  it  when  people  called  on  business ; 
on  such  occasions  he  would  lay  his  green  spectacles  on  the 
book,  to  mark  the  place,  while  he  turned  round  to  drive  some 
usurious  bargain. 

Some  say  that  Tom  grew  a  little  crack-brained  in  his  old 
days,  and  that  fancying  his  end  approaching,  he  had  his  horse 
new  shod,  saddled  and  bridled,  and  buried  with  his  feet  upper 
most  ;  because  he  supposed  that  at  the  last  day  the  world  would 
be  turned  upside  down ;  in  which  case  he  should  find  his  horse 
standing  ready  for  mounting,  and  he  was  determined  at  the 
worst  to  give  his  old  friend  a  run  for  it.  This,  however,  is 
probably  a  mere  old  wives'  fable.  If  he  really  did  take  such  a 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM   WALKER. 

precaution  it  was  totally  superfluous;  at  least  so  says  the 
authentic  old  legend,  which  closes  his  story  in  the  following 
manner: 

,  On  one  hot  afternoon  in  the  dog  days,  just  as  a  terrible  black 
thunder-gust  was  coming  up,  Tom  sat  in  his  counting-house  in 
his  white  linen  cap  and  India  silk  morning-gown.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  foreclosing  a  mortgage,  by  which  he  would  com 
plete  the  ruin  of  an  unlncky  land  speculator  for  whom  he  had 
professed  the  greatest  friendship.  The  poor  land  jobber  begged 
him  to  grant  a  few  months'  indulgence.  Tom  had  grown  testy 
and  irritated  and  refused  another  day. 

"  My  family  will  be  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish," 
said  the  land  jobber.  "  Charity  begins  at  home,"  replied  Tom, 
"I  must  take  care  of  myself  in  these  hard  times." 

"  You  have  made  so  much  money  out  of  me,"  said  the  specu 
lator. 

Tom  lost  his  patience  and  his  piety — "The  devil  take  me," 
said  he,  "  if  I  have  made  a  farthing ! " 

Just  then  there  were  three  loud  knocks  at  the  street  door. 
He  stepped  out  to  see  who  was  there.  A  black  man  was  hold 
ing  a  black  horse  which  neighed  and  stamped  with  impatience. 

"  Tom,  you're  come  for ! "  said  the  black  fellow,  gruffly.  Tom 
shrunk  back,  but  too  late.  He  had  left  his  little  Bible  at  the 
bottom  of  his  coat  pocket,  and  his  big  Bible  on  the  desk  buried 
under  the  mortgage  he  was  about  to  foreclose :  never  was  sin 
ner  taken  more  unawares.  The  black  man  whisked  him  like 
a  child  astride  the  horse  and  away  he  galloped  in  the  midst  of 
a  thunder-storm.  The  clerks  stuck  their  pens  behind  their  ears 
and  stared  after  him  from  the  windows.  Away  went  Tom 
Walker,  dashing  down  the  street;  his  white  cap  bobbing  up 
and  down ;  his  morning-gown  fluttering  in  the  wind,  and  his 
steed  striking  fire  out  of  the  pavement  at  every  bound.  When 
the  clerks  turned  to  look  for  the  black  man  he  had  disappeared. 

Tom  Walker  never  returned  to  foreclose  the  mortgage.  A 
countryman  who  lived  on  the  borders  of  the  swamp,  reported 
that  in  the  height  of  the  thunder-gust  he  had  heard  a  great 
clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  howling  along  the  road,  and  that  when 
he  ran  to  the  window  he  just  caught  sight  of  a  figure,  such  as 
I  have  described,  on  a  horse  that  galloped  like  mad  across  the 
fields,  over  the  hills  and  down  into  the  black  hemlock  swamp 
towards  the  old  Indian  fort ;  and  that  shorty  after  a  thunder 
bolt  fell  in  that  direction  which  seemed  to  set  the  whole  forest 
in  a  blaze. 


224  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

The  good  people  of  Boston  shook  their  heads  and  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  but  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to  witches 
and  goblins  and  tricks  of  the  devil  in  all  kinds  of  shapes  from 
the  first  settlement  of  the  colony,  that  they  were  not  so  much 
horror-struck  as  might  have  been  expected.  Trustees  were 
appointed  to  take  charge  of  Tom's  effects.  There  was  nothing, 
however,  to  administer  upon.  On  searching  his  coffers  all  his 
bonds  and  mortgages  were  found  reduced  to  cinders.  In  place 
of  gold  and  silver,  his  iron  chest  was  filled  with  chips  and  shav 
ings  ;  two  skeletons  lay  in  his  stable  instead  of  his  half -starved 
horses,  and  the  very  next  day  his  great  house  took  fire  and 
was  burnt  to  the  ground. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Tom  Walker  and  his  ill-gotten  wealth. 
Let  all  griping  money-brokers  lay  this  story  to  heart.  The 
truth  of  it  is  not  to  be  doubted.  The  very  hole  under  the  oak 
trees,  from  whence  he  dug  Kidd's  money,  is  to  be  seen  to  this 
day ;  and  the  neighboring  swamp  and  old  Indian  fort  is  often 
haunted  in  stormy  nights  by  a  figure  on  horseback,  in  a  morn 
ing-gown  and  white  cap,  which  is  doubtless  the  troubled  spirit 
of  the  usurer.  In  fact,  the  story  has  resolved  itself  into  a 
proverb,  and  is  the  origin  of  that  popular  saying  prevalent 
throughout  New-England,  of  "  The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker." 

Such,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect,  was  the  tenor  of  the  tale 
told  by  the  Cape  Cod  whaler.  There  were  divers  trivial  par 
ticulars  which  I  have  omitted,  and  which  wiled  away  the 
morning  very  pleasantly,  until  the  time  of  tide  favorable  for 
fishing  being  passed,  it  was  proposed  that  we  should  go  to 
land,  and  refresh  ourselves  under  the  trees,  until  the  noontide 
heat  should  have  abated. 

We  accordingly  landed  on  a  delectable  part  of  the  island  of 
Mannahatta,  in  that  shady  and  embowered  tract  formerly 
under  dominion  of  the  ancient  family  of  the  Hardenbrooks. 
It  was  a  spot  well  known  to  me  in  the  course  of  the  aquatic 
expeditions  of  my  boyhood.  Not  far  from  where  we  landed, 
was  an  old  Dutch  family  vault,  in  the  side  of  a  bank,  which 
had  been  an  object  of  great  awe  and  fable  among  my  school 
boy  associates.  There  were  several  mouldering  coffins  within; 
but  what  gave  it  a  fearful  interest  with  us,  was  its  being  con 
nected  in  our  minds  with  the  pirate  wreck  which  lay  among 
the  rocks  of  Hell  Gate.  There  were  also  stories  of  smuggling 
connected  with  it,  particularly  during  a  time  that  this  retired 
spot  was  owned  by  a  noted  burgher  called  Ready  Money  Pro 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;  OR,   GOLDEN  DREAMS.       225 

post ;  a  man  of  whom  it  was  whispered  that  he  had  many  and 
mysterious  dealings  with  parts  beyond  seas.  All  these  things, 
however,  had  been  jumbled  together  in  our  minds  in  that  vague 
way  in  which  such  things  are  mingled  up  in  the  tales  of  boy 
hood. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  these  matters  my  companions  had 
spread  a  repast,  from  the  contents  of  our  well-stored  pannier, 
and  we  solaced  ourselves  during  the  warm  sunny  hours  of 
mid-day  under  the  shade  of  a  broad  chestnut,  on  the  cool 
grassy  carpet  that  swept  down  to  the  water's  edge.  While 
lolling  on  the  grass  I  summoned  up  the  dusky  recollections  of 
my  boyhood  respecting  this  place,  and  repeated  them  like  the 
imperfectly  remembered  traces  of  a  dream,  for  the  entertain 
ment  of  my  companions.  When  I  had  finished,  a  worthy  old 
burgher,  John  Josse  Vandermoere,  the  same  who  once  related 
to  me  the  adventures  of  Dolph  Heyliger,  broke  silence  and 
observed,  that  he  recollected  a  story  about  money-digging 
which  occurred  in  this  very  neighborhood.  As  we  knew  him 
to  be  one  of  the  most  authentic  narrators  of  the  province  we 
begged  him  to  let  us  have  the  particulars,  and  accordingly, 
while  we  refreshed  ourselves  with  a  clean  long  pipe  of  Blase 
Moore's  tobacco,  the  authentic  John  Josse  Vandermoere  related 
the  following  tale. 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;  OR,  GOLDEN  DREAMS. 

IN  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and — blank 
— for  I  do  not  remember  the  precise  date;  however,  it  was 
somewhere  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  there  lived  in 
the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes  a  worthy  burgher,  Wolf ert 
Webber  by  name.  He  was  descended  from  old  Cobus  Webber 
of  the  Brille  in  Holland,  one  of  the  original  settlers,  famous  for 
introducing  the  cultivation  of  cabbages,  and  who  came  over  to 
the  province  during  the  protectorship  of  Oloffe  Van  Kortlandt, 
otherwise  called  the  Dreamer. 

The  field  in  which  Cobus  Webber  first  planted  himself  and 
bis  cabbages  had  remained  ever  since  in  the  family,  who  con 
tinued  in  the  same  line  of  husbandry,  with  that  praiseworthy 
perseverance  for  which  our  Dutch  burghers  are  noted.  The 
ivhole  family  genius,  during  several  generations,  was  devoted 


226  TALES  OF  A   TEA  V  VLLER. 

to  the  study  and  development  of  this  one  noble  vegetable ;  and 
to  this  concentration  of  intellect  may  doubtless  be  ascribed  the 
prodigious  size  and  renown  to  which  the  Webber  cabbages 
attained. 

The  Webber  dynasty  continued  in  uninterrupted  succession; 
and  never  did  a  line  give  more  unquestionable  proofs  of  legiti 
macy.  The  eldest  son  succeeded  to  the  looks,  as  well  as  the 
territory  of  his  sire ;  and  had  the  portraits  of  this  line  of  tran 
quil  potentates  been  taken,  they  would  have  presented  a  row 
.  of  heads  marvellously  resembling  in  shape  and  magnitude  the 
vegetables  over  which  they  reigned. 

The  seat  of  government  continued  unchanged  in  the  family 
mansion : — a  Dutch-built  house,  with  a  front,  or  rather  gable- 
end  of  yellow  brick,  tapering  to  a  point,  with  the  customary 
iron  weathercock  at  the  top.  Every  thing  about  the  building 
bore  the  air  of  long-settled  ease  and  security.  Flights  of 
martins  peopled  the  little  coops  nailed  against  the  walls,  and 
swallows  built  their  nests  under  the  eaves;  and  every  one 
knows  that  these  house-loving  birds  bring  good  luck  to  the 
dwelling  where  they  take  up  their  abode.  In  a  bright  sunny 
morning  in  early  summer,  it  was  delectable  to  hear  their 
cheerful  notes,  as  they  sported  about  in  the  pure,  sweet  air, 
chirping  forth,  as  it  were,  the  greatness  and  prosperity  of  the 
Webbers. 

Thus  quietly  and  comfortably  did  this  excellent  family  vege 
tate  under  the  shade  of  a  mighty  button-wood  tree,  which  by 
little  and  little  grew  so  great  as  entirely  to  overshadow  their 
palace.  The  city  gradually  spread  its  suburbs  round  their 
domain.  Houses  sprung  up  to  interrupt  their  prospects.  The 
rural  lanes  in  the  vicinity  began  to  grow  into  the  bustle  and 
populousness  of  streets ;  in  short,  with  all  the  habits  of  rustic 
life  they  began  to  find  themselves  the  inhabitants  of  a  city. 
'Still,  however,  they  maintained  their  hereditary  character,  and 
hereditary  possessions,  with  all  the  tenacity  of  petty  German 
princes  in  the  midst  of  the  Empire.  Wolfert  was  the  last  of 
the  line,  and  succeeded  to  the  patriarchal  bench  at  the  door, 
under  the  family  tree,  and  swayed  the  sceptre  of  his  fathers,  a 
•  kind  of  rural  potentate  in  the  midst  of  a  metropolis. 

To  share  the  cares  and  sweets  of  sovereignty,  he  had  taken 
unto  himself  a  help-mate,  one  of  that  excellent  kind  called 
stirring  women ;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  one  of  those  notable 
little  housewives  who  are  always  busy  when  there  is  nothing 
to  do.  Her  activity,  however,  took  one  particular  direction; 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,   GOLDEN  DREAMS.       221 

her  whole  Me  seemed  devoted  to  intense  knitting;  whether  at 
home  or  abroad ;  walking  or  sitting,  her  needles  were  continu 
ally  in  motion,  and  it  is  even  affirmed  that  by  her  unwearied 
industry  she  very  nearly  supplied  her  household  with  stock 
ings  throughout  the  year.  This  worthy  couple  were  blessed 
with  one  daughter,  who  was  brought  up  with  great  tenderness 
and  care;  uncommon  pains  had  been  taken  with  her  educa 
tion,  so  that  she  could  stitch  in  every  variety  of  way ;  make 
all  kinds  of  pickles  and  preserves,  and  mark  her  own  name  on 
a  sampler.  The  influence  of  her  taste  was  seen  also  in  the 
family  garden,  where  the  ornamental  began  to  mingle  with  the 
useful ;  whole  rows  of  fiery  marigolds  and  splendid  hollyhocks 
bordered  theccabbage-beds ;  and  gigantic  sunflowers  lolled  their 
broad,  jolly  faces  over  the  fences,  seeming  to  ogle  most  affecti 
onately  the  passers-by. 

Thus  reigned  and  vegetated  Wolfert  Webber  over  his  pater 
nal  acres,  peaceably  and  contentedly.  Not  but  that,  like  all 
other  sovereigns,  he  had  his  occasional  cares  and  vexations. 
The  growth  of  his  native  city  sometimes  caused  him  annoy 
ance.  His  little  territory  gradually  became  hemmed  in  by 
streets  and  houses,  which  intercepted  air  and  sunshine.  lie 
was  now  and  then  subject  to  the  irruptions  of  the  border  popu 
lation,  that  infest  the  streets  of  a  metropolis,  who  would  some 
times  make  midnight  forays  into  his  dominions,  and  carry  off- 
captive  whole  platoons  of  his  noblest  subjects.  Vagrant  swine 
would  make  a  descent,  too,  now  and  then,  when  the  gate  was 
left  open,  and  lay  all  waste  before  them;  and  mischievous 
urchins  would  often  decapitate  the  illustrious  sunflowers,  the 
glory  of  the  garden,  as  they  lolled  their  heads  so  fondly  over 
the  walls.  Still  all  these  were  petty  grievances,  which  might 
now  and  then  ruffle  the  surface  of  his  mind,  as  a  summer 
breeze  will  ruffle  the  surface  of  a  mill-pond;  but  they  could 
not  disturb  the  deep-seated  quiet  of  his  soul.  He  would  seize  a 
trusty  staff,  that  stood  behind  the  door,  issue  suddenly  out, 
and  anoint  the  back  of  the  aggressor,  whether  pig  or  urchin, 
and  then  return  within  doors,  marvellously  refreshed  and 
tranquillized. 

The  chief  cause  of  anxiety  to  honest  Wolfert,  however,  was 
the  growing  prosperity  of  the  city.  The  expenses  of  living 
doubled  and  trebled ;  but  he  could  not  double  and  treble  the 
magnitude  of  his  cabbages;  and  the  number  of  competitors 
prevented  the  increase  of  price ;  thus,  therefore,  while  every  one 
around  him  grew  richer,  Wolfert  grew  poorer,  and  he  could 


228  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

not,  for  the  life  of  him,  perceive  how  the  evil  was  to  be 
remedied. 

This  growing  care  which  increased  from  day  to  day,  had  its 
gradual  effect  upon  our  worthy  burgher ;  insomuch,  that  it  at 
length  implanted  two  or  three  wrinkles  on  his  brow;  things 
unknown  before  in  the  family  of  the  Webbers ;  and  it  seemed  to 
pinch  up  the  corners  of  his  cocked  hat  into  an  expression  of 
anxiety,  totally  opposite  to  the  tranquil,  broad-brimmed,  low- 
crowned  beavers  of  his  illustrious  progenitors. 

Perhaps  even  this  would  not  have  materially  disturbed  the 
serenity  of  his  mind  had  he  had  only  himself  and  his  wif  e  to  care 
for;  but  there  was  his  daughter  gradually  growing  to  maturity ; 
and  all  the  world  knows  when  daughters  begin  to  ripen  no 
fruit  or  flower  requires  so  much  looking  after.  I  have  no  talent 
at  describing  female  charms,  else  fain  would  I  depict  the  progress 
of  this  little  Dutch  beauty.  How  her  blue  eyes  grew  deeper 
and  deeper,  and  her  cherry  lips  redder  and  redder ;  and  how 
she  ripened  and  ripened,  and  rounded  and  rounded  in  the 
opening  breath  of  sixteen  summers,  until,  in  her  seventeenth 
spring,  she  seemed  ready  to  burst  out  of  her  boddice  like  a  half- 
blown  rose-bud. 

Ah,  well-a-day !  could  I  but  show  her  as  she  was  then,  tricked 
out  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  hereditary  finery  of  the  old 
Dutch  clothes-press,  of  which  her  mother  had  confided  to  her  the 
key.  The  wedding  dress  of  her  grandmother,  modernized  for 
use,  with  sundry  ornaments,  handed  down  as  heirlooms  in  the 
family.  Her  pale  brown  hair  smoothed  with  buttermilk  in  flat 
waving  Lines  on  each  side  of  her  fair  forehead.  The  chain  of 
yellow  virgin  gold,  that  encircled  her  neck ;  the  little  cross,  that 
just  rested  at  the  entrance  of  a  soft  valley  of  happiness,  as  if  it 
would  sanctify  the  place.  The — but  pooh !— it  is  not  for  an  old 
man  like  me  to  be  prosing  about  female  beauty :  suffice  it  to  say, 
Amy  had  attained  her  seventeenth  year.  Long  since  had  her 
sampler  exhibited  hearts  in  couples  desperately  transfixed  with 
arrows,  and  time  lovers'  knots  worked  in  deep  blue  silk ;  and  it 
was  evident  she  began  to  languish  for  some  more  interesting 
occupation  than  the  rearing  of  sunflowers  or  pickling  of 
cucumbers. 

At  this  critical  period  of  female  existence,  when  the  heart 
within  a  damsel's  bosom,  like  its  emblem,  the  miniature  which 
hangs  without,  is  apt  to  be  engrossed  by  a  single  image,  a  new 
visitor  began  to  make  his  appearance  under  the  roof  of  Wolf  ert 
Webber.  This  was  Dirk  Waldron,  the  only  son  of  a  poor 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       229 

widow,  but  who  could  boast  of  more  fathers  than  any  lad  in 
the  province ;  for  his  mother  had  had  four  husbands,  and  this 
only  child,  so  that  though  born  in  her  last  wedlock,  he  might 
fairly  claim  to  be  the  tardy  fruit  of  a  long  course  of  cultiva 
tion.  This  son  of  four  fathers  united  the  merits  and  the  vigor 
of  his  sires.  If  he  had  not  a  great  family  before  him,  he 
seemed  likely  to  have  a  great  one  after  him ;  for  you  had  only 
to  look  at  the  fresh  gamesome  youth,  to  see  that  he  was  formed 
to  be  the  founder  of  a  mighty  race. 

This  youngster  gradually  became  an  intimate  visitor  of  the 
family.  He  talked  little,  but  he  sat  long.  He  filled  the  father's 
pipe  when  it  was  empty,  gathered  up  the  mother's  knitting- 
needle,  or  ball  of  worsted  when  it  fell  to  the  ground ;  stroked 
the  sleek  coat  of  the  tortoise-shell  cat,  and  replenished  the  tea 
pot  for  the  daughter  from  the  bright  copper  kettle  that  sung 
before  the  fire.  All  these  quiet  little  offices  may  seem  of  trifl 
ing  import,  but  when  true  love  is  translated  into  Low  Dutch, 
it  is  in  this  way  that  it  eloquently  expresses  itself.  They  were 
not  lost  upon  the  "Webber  family.  The  winning  youngster 
found  marvellous  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mother ;  the  tortoise- 
shell  cat,  albeit  the  most  staid  and  demure  of  her  kind,  gave 
indubitable  -  signs  of  approbation  of  his  visits,  the  tea-kettle 
seemed  to  sing  out  a  cheering  note  of  welcome  at  his  approach, 
and  if  the  sly  glances  of  the  daughter  might  be  rightly  read,  as 
she  sat  bridling  and  dimpling,  and  sewing  by  her  mother's 
side,  she  was  not  a  wit  behind  Dame  Webber,  or  grimalkin,  or 
the  tea-kettle  in  good-will. 

Wolfert  alone  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on.  Pro 
foundly  wrapt  up  in  meditation  on  the  growth  of  the  city  and 
his  cabbages,  he  sat  looking  in  the  fire,  and  puffing  his  pipe  in 
silence.  One  night,  however,  as  the  gentle  Amy,  according  to 
custom,  lighted  her  lover  to  the  outer  door,  and  he,  according 
to  custom,  took  his  parting  salute,  the  smack  resounded  so  vigor 
ously  through  the  long,  silent  entry  as  to  startle  even  the  dull  ear 
of  Wolfert.  He  was  slowly  roused  to  a  new  source  of  anxiety. 
It  had  never  entered  into  his  head,  that  this  mere  child, 
who,  as  it  seemed  but  the  other  day,  had  been  climbing  about 
his  knees,  and  playing  with  dolls  and  baby-houses,  could  all  at 
once  be  thinking  of  love  and  matrimony.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
examined  into  the  fact,  and  really  found  that  while  he  had 
been  dreaming  of  other  matters,  she  had  actually  grown  into  a 
woman,  and  what  was  more,  had  fallen  in  love.  Here  were 
new  cares  for  poor  Wolfert.  He  was  a  kind  father,  but  he 


200  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

was  a  prudent  man.  The  young  man  was  a  very  stirring  lad. 
but  then  he  had  neither  money  or  land.  Wolfert's  ideas  all 
ran  in  one  channel,  and  he  saw  no  alternative  in  case  of  a  mar 
riage,  but  to  portion  off  the  young  couple  with  a  corner  of  his 
cabbage  garden,  the  whole  of  which  was  barely  sufficient  for 
the  support  of  his  family. 

Like  a  prudent  father,  therefore,  he  determined  to  nip  this 
passion  in  the  bud,  and  forbade  the  youngster  the  house,  though 
sorely  did  it  go  against  his  fatherly  heart,  and  many  a  silent 
tear  did  it  cause  in  the  bright  eye  of  his  daughter.  She  showed 
herself,  however,  a  pattern  of  filial  piety  and  obedience.  She 
never  pouted  and  sulked ;  she  never  flew  in  the  face  of  parental 
authority ;  she  never  fell  into  a  passion,  or  fell  into  hysterics, 
as  many  romantic  novel-read  young  ladies  would  do.  Not  she, 
indeeed  1  She  was  none  such  heroical  rebellious  trumpery,  I 
warrant  ye.  On  the  contrary,  she  acquiesced  like  an  obedient 
daughter ;  shut  the  street-door  in  her  lover's  face,  and  if  ever 
she  did  grant  him  an  interview,  it  was  either  out  of  the  kitchen 
window,  or  over  the  gardon  garden  fence. 

Wolf  ert  was  deeply  cogitating  these  things  in  his  mind,  and 
his  brow  wrinkled  with  unusual  care,  as  he  wended  his  way 
one  Saturday  afternoon  to  a  rural  inn,  about  two  miles  from 
the  city.  It  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Dutch  part  of  the 
community  from  being  always  held  by  a  Dutch  line  of  land 
lords,  and  retaining  an  air  and  relish  of  the  good  old  times.  It 
was  a  Dutch-built  house,  that  had  probably  been  a  country 
seat  of  some  opulent  burgher  hi  the  early  time  of  the  settle 
ment.  It  stood  near  a  point  of  land,  called  Corlears  Hook, 
which  stretches  out  into  the  Sound,  and  against  which  the  tide, 
at  its  flux  and  reflux,  sets  with  extraordinary  rapidity.  The 
venerable  and  somewhat  crazy  mansion  was  distinguished 
from  afar,  by  a  grove  of  elms  and  sycamores  that  seemed  to 
wave  a  hospitable  invitation,  while  a  few  weeping  willows  with 
their  dank,  drooping  foliage,  resembling  falling  waters,  gave 
an  idea  of  coolness,  that  rendered  it  an  attractive  spot  during 
the  heats  of  summer. 

Here,  therefore,  as  I  said,  resorted  many  of  the  old  inhabi 
tants  of  the  Manhattoes,  where,  while  some  played  at  the  shuf 
fle-board  and  quoits  and  ninepins,  others  smoked  a  deliberate 
pipe,  and  talked  over  public  affairs. 

It  was  on  a  blustering  autumnal  afternoon  that  Wolf  ert  made 
his  visit  to  the  inn.  The  grove  of  elms  and  willows  was  stripped 
of  its  leaves,  which  whirled  in  rustling  eddies  about  the  fields. 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       231 

The  ninepin  alley  was  deserted,  for  the  premature  chilliness 
of  the  day  had  driven  the  company  within  doors.  As  it  was 
Saturday  afternoon,  the  habitual  club  was  in  session,  composed 
principally  of  regular  Dutch  burghers,  though  mingled  occa 
sionally  with  persons  of  various  character  and  country,  as  is 
natural  in  a  place  of  such  motley  population. 

Beside  the  fire-place,  and  in  a  huge  leather-bottomed  arm 
chair,  sat  the  dictator  of  this  little  world,  the  venerable  Rem, « 
or,  as  it  was  pronounced,  Kamm  Eapelye.  He  was  a  man  of 
Walloon  race,  and  illustrious  for  the  antiquity  of  his  line,  his 
great  grandmother  having  been  the  first  white  child  born  in 
the  province.  But  he  was  still  more  illustrious  for  his  wealth 
and  dignity :  he  had  long  filled  the  noble  office  of  alderman, 
and  was  a  man  to  whom  the  governor  himself  took  off  his  hat. 
He  had  maintained  possession  of  the  leathern-bottomed  chair 
from  time  immemorial ;  and  had  gradually  waxed  in  bulk  as 
he  sat  in  his  seat  of  government,  until  in  the  course  of  years  he 
filled  its  whole  magnitude.  His  word  .was  decisive  with  his 
subjects ;  for  he  was  so  rich  a  man,  that  he  was  never  expected 
to  support  any  opinion  by  argument.  The  landlord  waited  on 
him  with  peculiar  officiousness ;  not  that  he  paid  better  than 
his  neighbors,  but  then  the  coin  of  a  rich  man  seems  always  to 
be  so  much  more  acceptable.  The  landlord  had  always  a  pleas 
ant  word  and  a  joke,  to  insinuate  in  the  ear  of  the  august  Ramm. 
It  is  true,  Ramm  never  laughed,  and,  indeed,  maintained  a 
mastiff -like  gravity,  and  even  surliness  of  aspect,  yet  he  now 
and  then  rewarded  mine  host  with  a  token  of  approbation; 
which,  though  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  kind  of  grunt,  yet 
delighted  the  landlord  more  than  a  broad  laugh  from  a  poorer 
man. 

"This  will  be  a  rough  night  for  the  money-diggers,"  said 
mine  host,  as  a  gust  of  wind  howled  round  the  house,  and  rat 
tled  at  the  windows. 

"What,  are  they  at  their  works  again?"  said  an  English  half- 
pay  captain,  with  one  eye,  who  was  a  frequent  attendant  at 
the  inn. 

"  Aye,  are  they,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  well  may  they  be. 
They've  had  luck  of  late.  They  say  a  great  pot  of  money  has 
been  dug  up  in  the  field,  just  behind  Stuyvesant's  orchard. 
Folks  think  it  must  have  been  buried  there  in  old  times,  by 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  the  Dutch  Governor." 

"Fudge !"  said  the  one-eyed  man  of  war,  as  he  added  a  small 
portion  of  water  to  a  bottom  of  brandy. 


232  TALES  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

"Well,  you  may  believe,  or  not,  as  you  please,"  said  mine 
host,  somewhat  nettled ;  ' '  but  every  body  knows  that  the  old 
governor  buried  a  great  deal  of  his  money  at  the  time  of  the 
Dutch  troubles,  when  the  English  red-coats  seized  on  the  prov 
ince.  They  say,  too,  the  old  gentleman  walks ;  aye,  and  in  the 
very  same  dress  that  he  wears  in  the  picture  which  hangs  up 
in  the  family  house." 

"  Fudge  1"  said  the  half -pay  officer. 

"Fudge,  if  you  please! — But  didn't  Corney  Van  Zandt  see 
him  at  midnight,  stalking  about  in  the  meadow  with  his 
wooden  leg,  and  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  that  flashed  like 
lire?  And  what  can  he  be  walking  for,  but  because  people 
have  been  troubling  the  place  where  he  buried  his  money  in 
old  times?" 

Here  the  landlord  was  interrupted  by  several  guttural  sounds 
from  Kamm  Rapelye,  betokening  that  he  was  laboring  with  the 
unusual  production  of  an  idea.  As  he  was  too  great  a  man  to 
be  slighted  by  a  prudent  publican,  mine  host  respectfully  paused 
until  he  should  deliver  himself.  The  corpulent  frame  of  this 
mighty  burgher  now  gave  all  the  symptoms  of  a  volcanic 
mountain  on  the  point  of  an  eruption.  First,  there  was  a  cer 
tain  heaving  of  the  abdomen,  not  unlike  an  earthquake ;  then 
was  emitted  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  from  that  crater,  his 
mouth ;  then  there  was  a  kind  of  rattle  in  the  throat,  as  if  the 
idea  were  working  its  way  up  through  a  region  of  phlegm ; 
then  there  were  several  disjointed  members  of  a  sentence 
thrown  out,  ending  in  a  cough ;  at  length  his  voice  forced  its 
way  in  the  slow,  but  absolute  tone  of  a  man  who  feels  the 
weight  of  his  purse,  if  not  of  his  ideas ;  every  portion  of  his 
speech  being  marked  by  a  testy  puff  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"Who  talks  of  old  Peter  Stuyvesant's  walking? — puff— Have 
people  no  respect  for  persons?— puff— puff — Peter  Stuyvesant 
knew  better  what  to  do  with  his  money  than  to  bury  it — puff — 
I  know  the  Stuyvesant  family — puff — every  one  of  them — puff 
—not  a  more  respectable  family  in  the  province — puff — old 
standers — puff — warm  householders — puff — none  of  your  up 
starts — puff — puff — puff. — Don't  talk  to  me  of  Peter  Stuyves 
ant's  walking — puff — puff — puff — puff." 

Here  the  redoubtable  Ramm  contracted  his  brow,  clasped  up 
bis  mouth,  till  it  wrinkled  at  each  corner,  and  redoubled  his 
smoking  with  such  vehemence,  that  the  cloudly  volumes  soon 
wreathed  round  his  head,  as  the  smoke  envelopes  the  awful 
summit  of  Mount  Etna. 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,   GOLDEN  DREAMS.       233 

A  general  silence  followed  the  sudden  rebuke  of  this  very 
rich  man.  The  subject,  however,  was  too  interesting  to  be 
readily  abandoned.  The  conversation  soon  broke  forth  again 
from  the  lips  of  Peechy  Prauw  Van  Hook,  the  chronicler  of  the 
club,  one  of  those  narrative  old  men  who  seem  to  grow  incon 
tinent  of  words,  as  they  grow  old,  until  their  talk  flows  from 
them  almost  involuntarily. 

Peechy,  who  could  at  any  time  tell  as  many  stories  hi  an 
evening  as  his  hearers  could  digest  in  a  month,  now  resumed 
the  conversation,  by  affirming  that,  to  his  knowledge,  money 
had  at  different  times  been  dug  up  in  various  parts  of  the 
island.  The  lucky  persons  who  had  discovered  them  had 
always  dreamt  of  them  three  times  beforehand,  and  what 
was  worthy  of  remark,  these  treasures  had  never  been  found 
but  by  some  descendant  of  the  good  old  Dutch  families,  which 
clearly  proved  that  they  had  been  buried  by  Dutchman  in  the 
olden  time. 

"Fiddle-stick  with  your  Dutchman!"  cried  the  half -pay 
officer.  "The  Dutch  had  nothing  to  do  with  them.  They 
were  all  buried  by  Kidd,  the  pirate,  and  his  crew." 

Here  a  key-note  was  touched  that  roused  the  whole  company. 
The  name  of  Captain  Kidd  was  like  a  talisman  in  those  times, 
and  was  associated  with  a  thousand  marvellous  stories. 

The  half-pay  officer  was  a  man  of  great  weight  among  the 
peaceable  members  of  the  club,  by  reason  of  his  military 
character,  and  of  the  gunpowder  scenes  which,  by  his  own  ac 
count,  he  had  witneessed. 

The  golden  stories  of  Kidd,  however,  were  resolutely  rivalled 
by  the  tales  of  Peechy  Prauw,  who,  rather  than  suffer  his 
Dutch  progenitors  to  be  eclipsed  by  a  foreign  freebooter,  en 
riched  every  spot  in  the  neighborhood  with  the  hidden  wealth 
of  Peter  Stuyvesant  and  his  contemporaries. 

Not  a  word  of  this  conversation  was  lost  upon  Wolfert  Web 
ber.  He  returned  pensively  home,  full  of  magnificent  ideas  of 
buried  riches.  The  soil  of  his  native  island  seemed  to  be 
turned  into  gold-dust ;  and  every  field  teemed  with  treasure. 
His  head  almost  reeled  at  the  thought  how  often  he  must  have 
heedlessly  rambled  over  places  where  countless  sums  lay, 
scarcely  covered  by  the  turf  beneath  his  feet.  His  mind  was 
in  a  vertigo  with  this  whirl  of  new  ideas.  As  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  venerable  mansion  of  his  forefathers,  and  the  little  realm 
where  the  Webbers  had  so  long  and  so  contentedly  flourished, 
his  gorge  rose  at  the  narrc-^iiess  of  his  destiny. 


234  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

"Unlucky  Wolf ertl"  exclaimed  he,  "others  can  go  to  bed 
and  dream  themselves  into  whole  mines  of  wealth ;  they  have 
but  to  seize  a  spade  in  the  morning,  and  turn  up  doubloons 
like  potatoes;  but  thou  must  dream  of  hardship,  and  rise  to 
poverty — must  dig  thy  field  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
and — and  yet  raise  nothing  but  cabbages!" 

Wolf ert  Webber  went  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart ;  and  it  was 
long  before  the  golden  visions  that  disturbed  his  brain,  per 
mitted  him  to  sink  into  repose.  The  same  visions,  however, 
extended  into  his  sleeping  thoughts,  and  assumed  a  more  defi 
nite  form.  He  dreamt  that  he  had  discovered  an  immense 
treasure  in  the  centre  of  his  garden.  At  every  stroke  of  the 
spade  he  laid  bare  a  golden  ingot ;  diamond  crosses  sparkled 
out  of  the  dust ;  bags  of  money  turned  up  their  bellies,  corpu 
lent  with  pieces  of  eight,  or  venerable  doubloons ;  and  chests, 
wedged  close  with  moidores,  ducats,  and  pistareens,  yawned 
before  his  ravished  eyes,  and  vomited  forth  their  glittering 
contents. 

Wolf  ert  awoke  a  poorer  man  than  ever.  He  had  no  heart  to 
go  about  his  daily  concerns,  which  appeared  so  paltry  and 
profitless;  but  sat  all  day  long  in  the  chimney-corner,  pictur 
ing  to  himself  ingots  and  heaps  of  gold  in  the  fire.  The  next 
night  his  dream  was  repeated.  He  was  again  in  his  garden, 
digging,  and  laying  open  stores  of  hidden  wealth.  There  was 
something  very  singular  in  this  repetition.  He  passed  another 
day  of  reverie,  and  though  it  was  cleaning-day,  and  the  house, 
as  usual  in  Dutch  households,  completely  topsy-turvy,  yet  he 
sat  unmoved  amidst  the  general  uproar. 

The  third  night  he  went  to  bed  with  a  palpitating  heart.  He 
put  on  his  red  nightcap,  wrong  side  outwards  for  good  luck. 
It  was  deep  midnight  before  his  anxious  mind  could  settle  itself 
into  sleep.  Again  the  golden  dream  was  repeated,  and  again 
he  saw  his  garden  teeming  with  ingots  and  money-bags. 

Wolfert  rose  the  next  morning  in  complete  bewilderment. 
A  dream  three  times  repeated  was  never  known  to  lie ;  and  if 
so,  his  fortune  was  made. 

In  his  agitation  he  put  on  his  waistcoat  with  the  hind  part 
before,  and  this  was  a  corroboration  of  good  luck.  He  no 
longer  doubted  that  a  huge  store  of  money  lay  buried  some 
where  in  his  cabbage-field,  coyly  waiting  to  be  sought  for,  and 
he  half  repined  at  having  so  long  been  scratching  about  the 
surface  of  the  soil,  instead  of  digging  to  the  centre. 

He  took  his  seat  at  the  breakfast-table  full  of  these  specular 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  DREAM'S.       235 

tions ;  asked  his  daughter  to  put  a  lump  of  gold  into  his  tea, 
and  on  handing  his  wife  a  plate  of  slap-jacks,  begging  her  to 
help  herself  to  a  doubloon. 

His  grand  care  now  was  how  to  secure  this  immense  treasure 
without  it  being  known.  Instead  of  working  regularly  in  his 
grounds  in  the  day-time,  he  now  stole  from  his  bed  at  night, 
and  with  spade  and  pickaxe,  went  to  work  to  rip  up  and  dig 
about  his  paternal  acres,  from  one  end  to  the  other.  In  a  little 
time  the  whole  garden,  which  had  presented  such  a  goodly  and 
regular  appearance,  with  its  phalanx  of  cabbages,  like  a  vege 
table  army  in  battle  array,  was  reduced  to  a  scene  of 
devastation,  while  the  relentless  Wolfert,  with  nightcap  on 
head,  and  lantern  and  spade  in  hand,  stalked  through  the 
slaughtered  ranks,  the  destroying  angel  of  his  own  vegetable 
world. 

Every  morning  bore  testimony  to  the  ravages  of  the  preced 
ing  night  in  cabbages  of  all  ages  and  conditions,  from  the  ten 
der  sprout  to  the  full-grown  head,  piteously  rooted  from  their 
quiet  beds  like  worthless  weeds,  and  left  to  wither  in  the  sun 
shine.  It  was  in  vain  Wolf ert's  wife  remonstrated ;  it  was  in 
vain  his  darling  daughter  wept  over  the  destruction  of  some 
favorite  marygold.  "  Thou  shalt  have  gold  of  another  guess- 
sort,"  he  would  cry,  chucking  her  under  the  chin;  "thou 
shalt  have  a  string  of  crooked  ducats  for  thy  wedding-necklace, 
my  child."  His  family  began  really  to  fear  that  the  poor 
man's  wits  were  diseased.  He  muttered  in  his  sleep  at  night 
of  mines  of  wealth,  of  pearls  and  diamonds  and  bars  of  gold. 
In  the  day-tune  he  was  moody  and  abstracted,  and  walked  about 
as  if  in  a  trance.  Dame  Webber  held  frequent  councils  with 
all  the  old  women  of  the  neighborhood,  not  omitting  the  parish 
dominie ;  scarce  an  hour  in  the  day  but  a  knot  of  them  might 
be  seen  wagging  their  white  caps  together  round  her  door, 
while  the  poor  woman  made  some  piteous  recital.  The.  daugh 
ter,  too,  was  fain  to  seek  for  more  frequent  consolation  from 
the  stolen  interviews  of  her  favored  swain,  Dirk  Waldron. 
The  delectable  little  Dutch  songs  with  which  she  used  to  dulcify 
the  house  grew  less  and  less  frequent,  and  she  would  forget  her 
sewing  and  look  wistfully  in  her  father's  face  as  he  sat  pon 
dering  by  the  fireside.  Wolfert  caught  her  eye  one  day  fixed 
on  him  thus  anxiously,  and  for  a  moment  was  roused  from  his 
golden  reveries — "Cheer  up,  my  girl,"  said  he,  exultingly, 
"why  dost  thou  droop? — thou  shalt  hold  up  thy  head  one  day 
with  the and  the  Schemerhorns,  the  Van  Homes,  and  the 


2'JQ  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

Van  Dams — the  patroon  himself  shall  be  glad  to  get  thee  for 
his  son !" 

Amy  shook  her  head  at  this  vain-glorious  boast,  and  was 
more  than  ever  in  doubt  of  the  soundness  of  the  good  man's 
intellect. 

In  the  meantime  "Wolfert  went  on  digging,  but  the  field  was 
extensive,  and  as  his  dream  had  indicated  no  precise  spot,  he 
had  to  dig  at  random.  The  winter  set  in  before  one-tenth  of 
the  scene  of  promise  had  been  explored.  The  ground  became 
too  frozen  and  the  nights  too  cold  for  the  labors  of  the  spade. 
No  sooner,  however,  did  the  returning  warmth  of  spring  loosen 
the  soil,  and  the  small  frogs  begin  to  pipe  in  the  meadows,  but 
"Wolfert  resumed  his  labors  with  renovated  zeal.  Still,  how 
ever,  the  hours  of  industry  were  reversed.  Instead  of  working 
cheerily  all  day,  planting  and  setting  out  his  vegetables,  he  re 
mained  thoughtfully  idle,  until  the  shades  of  night  summoned 
him  to  his  secret  labors.  In  this  way  he  continued  to  dig  from 
night  to  night,  and  week  to  week,  and  month  to  month,  but 
not  a  stiver  did  he  find.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  he  digged 
.the  poorer  he  grew.  The  rich  soil  of  his  garden  was  digged 
away,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  from  beneath  were  thrown  to 
the  surface,  until  the  whole  field  presented  an  aspect  of  sandy 
barrenness. 

In  the  meantime  the  seasons  gradually  rolled  on.  The  little 
frogs  that  had  piped  in  the  meadows  in  early  spring,  croaked 
as  bull-frogs  in  the  brooks  during  the  summer  heats,  and  then 
sunk  into  silence.  The  peach  tree  budded,  blossomed,  and  bore 
its  fruit.  The  swallows  and  martins  came,  twittered  about  the 
roof,  built  their  nests,  reared  their  young,  held  their  congress 
along  the  eaves,  and  then  winged  their  flight  in  search  of 
another  spring.  The  caterpillar  spun  its  winding-sheet,  dangled 
in  it  from  the  great  buttonwood  tree  that  shaded  the  house, 
turned  into  a  moth,  fluttered  with  the  last  sunshine  of  summer, 
and  disappeared ;  and  finally  the  leaves  of  the  buttonwood  tree 
turned  yellow,  then  brown,  then  rustled  one  by  one  to  the 
ground,  and  whirling  about  in  little  eddies  of  wind  and  dust, 
whispered  that  winter  was  at  hand. 

Wolfert  gradually  awoke  from  his  dream  of  wealth  as  the 
year  declined.  He  had  reared  no  crop  to  supply  the  wants  of 
his  household  during  the  sterility  of  winter.  The  season  was 
long  and  severe,  and  for  the  first  time  the  family  was  really 
straightened  in  its  comforts.  By  degrees  a  revulsion  of  thought 
took  place  in  Wolfert's  mind,  common  to  those  whose  golden 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       237 

dreams  have  been  disturbed  by  pinching  realities.  The  idea 
gradually  stole  upon  him  that  he  should  come  to  want.  He 
already  considered  himself  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  men  in 
the  province,  having  lost  such  an  incalculable  amount  of  undis 
covered  treasure,  and  now,  when  thousands  of  pounds  had 
eluded  his  search,  to  be  perplexed  for  shillings  and  pence  was 
cruel  in  the  extreme. 

Haggard  care  gathered  about  his  brow ;  he  went  about  with 
a  money -seeking  air,  his  eyes  bent  downwards  into  the  dust, 
and  carrying  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  men  are  apt  to  do 
when  they  have  nothing  else  to  put  into  them.  He  could  not 
even  pass  the  city  almshouse  without  giving  it  a  rueful  glance, 
as  if  destined  to  be  his  future  abode. 

The  strangeness  of  his  conduct  and  of  his  looks  occasioned 
much  speculation  and  remark.  For  a  long  time  he  was  sus 
pected  of  being  crazy,  and  then  every  body  pitied  him;  at 
length  it  began  to  be  suspected  that  he  was  poor,  and  then 
every  body  avoided  him. 

The  rich  old  burghers  of  his  acquaintance  met  him  outside  of 
the  door  when  he  called,  entertained  him  hospitably  on  the 
threshold,  pressed  him  warmly  by  the  hand  on  parting,  shook 
their  heads  as  he  walked  away,  with  the  kind-hearted  expres 
sion  of  "poor  Wolfert,"  and  turned  a  corner  nimbly,  if  by 
chance  they  saw  him  approaching  as  they  walked  the  streets. 
Even  the  barber  and  cobbler  of  the  neighborhood,  and  a  tat 
tered  tailor  in  an  alley  hard  by,  three  of  the  poorest  and  mer 
riest  rogues  in  the  world,  eyed  him  with  that  abundant  sym 
pathy  which  usually  attends  a  lack  of  means,  and  there  is  not 
a  doubt  but  their  pockets  would  have  been  at  his  command, 
only  that  they  happened  to  be  empty. 

Thus  every  body  deserted  the  Webber  mansion,  as  if  poverty 
were  contagious,  like  the  plague ;  every  body  but  honest  Dirk 
.Waldron,  who  still  kept  up  his  stolen  visits  to  the  daughter, 
and  indeed  seemed  to  wax  more  affectionate  as  the  fortunes  of 
his  mistress  were  on  the  wane. 

Many  months  had  elapsed  since  Wolfert  had  frequented  his 
old  resort,  the  rural  inn.  He  was  taking  a  long  lonely  walk 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  musing  over  his  wants  and  disappoint 
ments,  when  his  feet  took  instinctively  their  wonted  direction, 
and  on  awaking  out  of  a  reverie,  he  found  himself  before  the 
door  of  the  inn.  For  some  moments  he  hesitated  whether  to 
enter,  but  his  heart  yearned  for  companionship ;  and  where  can 
a  ruined  man  find  better  companionship  than  at  a  tavern, 


238  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

where  there  is  neither  sober  example  nor  sober  advice  to  put 
him  out  of  countenance? 

Wolfert  found  several  of  the  old  frequenters  of  the  tavern  at 
their  usual  posts,  and  seated  in  their  usual  places ;  but  one  was 
missing,  the  great  Bamm  Rapelye,  who  for  many  years  had 
filled  the  chair  of  state.  His  place  was  supplied  by  a  stranger, 
who  seemed,  however,  completely  at  home  in  the  chair  and  the 
tavern.  He  was  rather  under-size,  but  deep-chested,  square, 
and  muscular.  His  broad  shoulders,  double  joints,  and  bow- 
knees,  gave  tokens  of  prodigious  strength.  His  face  was  dark 
and  weather-beaten ;  a  deep  scar,  as  if  from  the  slash  of  a  cut 
lass,  had  almost  divided  his  nose,  and  made  a  gash  in  his  upper 
lip,  through  which  his  teeth  shone  like  a  bull-dog's.  A  mass 
of  iron  gray  hair  gave  a  grizzly  finish  to  his  hard-favored  vis- 
sage.  His  dress  was  of  an  amphibious  character.  He  wore  an 
old  hat  edged  with  tarnished  lace,  and  cocked  in  martial  style, 
on  one  side  of  his  head ;  a  rusty  blue  military  coat  with  brass 
buttons,  and  a  wide  pair  of  short  petticoat  trousers,  or  rather 
breeches,  for  they  were  gathered  up  at  the  knees.  He  ordered 
every  body  about  him  with  an  authoritative  air;  talked  in  a 
brattling  voice,  that  sounded  like  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot ;  damned  the  landlord  and  servants  with  perfect  impu 
nity,  and  was  waited  upon  with  greater  obsequiousness  than 
had  ever  been  shown  to  the  mighty  Bamm  himself. 

Wolfert's  curiosity  was  awakened  to  know  who  and  what 
was  this  stranger  who  had  thus  usurped  absolute  sway  in  this 
ancient  domain.  He  could  get  nothing,  however,  but  vague 
information.  Peechy  Prauw  took  him  aside,  into  a  remote 
corner  of  the  hall,  and  there  in  an  under- voice,  and  with  great 
caution,  imparted  to  him  all  that  he  knew  on  the  subject.  The 
inn  had  been  aroused  several  months  before,  on  a  dark  stormy 
night,  by  repeated  long  shouts,  that  seemed  like  the  bowlings 
of  a  wolf.  They  came  from  the  water-side ;  and  at  length  were 
distinguished  to  be  hailing  the  house  in  the  seafaring  manner. 
"  House-a-hoy !"  The  landlord  turned  out  with  his  head- 
waiter,  tapster,  hostler,  and  errand  boy— that  is  to  say,  with 
his  old  negro  Cuff.  On  approaching  the  place  from  whence  the 
voice  proceeded,  they  found  this  amphibious-looking  personage 
at  the  water's  edge,  quite  alone,  and  seated  on  a  great  oaken 
sea-chest.  How  he  came  there,  whether  he  had  been  set  on 
shore  from  some  boat,  or  had  floated  to  land  on  his  chest, 
nobody  could  tell,  for  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  answer 
questions,  and  there  was  something  in  his  looks  and  manners 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  1  REAMS.       239 

that  put  a  stop  to  all  questioning.  Suffice  it  to  say,  he  took 
possession  of  a  corner  room  of  the  inn,  to  which  his  chest  was 
removed  with  great  difficulty.  Here  he  had  remained  ever 
since,  keeping  about  the  inn  and  its  vicinity.  Sometimes,  it 
is  true,  he  disappeared  for  one,  two,  or  three  days  at  a  time, 
going  and  returning  without  giving  any  notice  or  account  of 
his  movements.  He  always  appeared  to  have  plenty  of  money, 
though  often  of  very  strange,  outlandish  coinage ;  and  he  regu 
larly  paid  his  bill  every  evening  before  turning  in. 

He  had  fitted  up  his  room  to  his  own  fancy,  having  slung  a 
hammock  from  the  ceiling  instead  of  a  bed,  and  decorated  the 
walls  with  rusty  pistols  and  cutlasses  of  foreign  workmanship. 
A  great  part  of  his  time  was  passed  in  this  room,  seated  by  the 
window,  which  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  Sound,  a  short 
old-fashioned  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  glass  of  rum  toddy  at  his 
elbow,  and  a  pocket  telescope  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  recon 
noitred  every  boat  that  moved  upon  the  water.  Large  square- 
rigged  vessels  seemed  to  excite  but  little  attention ;  but  the 
moment  he  descried  any  thing  with  a  shoulder-of -mutton  sail, 
or  that  a  barge,  or  yawl,  or  jolly  boat  hove  in  sight,  up  went 
the  telescope,  and  he  examined  it  with  the  most  scrupulous 
attention. 

All  this  might  have  passed  without  much  notice,  for  in  those 
times  the  province  was  so  much  the  resort  of  adventurers  of  all 
characters  and  climes  that  any  oddity  in  dress  or  behavior 
attracted  but  little  attention.  But  in  a  little  while  this  strange 
sea  monster,  thus  strangely  cast  up  on  dry  land,  began  to 
encroach  upon  the  long-established  customs  and  customers  of 
the  place ;  to  interfere  in  a  dictatorial  manner  in  the  affairs  of 
the  ninepin  alley  and  the  bar-room,  until  in  the  end  he  usurped 
an  absolute  command  over  the  little  inn.  In  was,  in  vain  to 
attempt  to  withstand  his  authority.  He  was  not  exactly  quar 
relsome,  but  boisterous  and  peremptory,  like  one  accustomed 
to  tyrannize  on  a  quarter  deck ;  and  there  was  a  dare-devil  air 
about  every  thing  he  said  and  did,  that  inspired  a  wariness  in 
all  bystanders.  Even  the  half -pay  officer,  so  long  the  hero  of 
the  club,  was  soon  silenced  by  him ;  and  the  quiet  burghers 
stared  with  wonder  at  seeing  their  inflammable  man  of  war  so 
readily  and  quietly  extinguished. 

And  then  the  tales  that  he  would  tell  were  enough  to  make  a 
peaceable  man's  hair  stand  on  end.  There  was  not  a  sea  fight, 
or  marauding  or  free-booting  adventure  that  had  happened 
within  the  last  twenty  years  but  he  seemed  perfectly  versed  io 


240  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

it.  He  delighted  to  talk  of  the  exploits  of  the  buccaneers  in 
the  West-Indies  and  on  the  Spanish  Main.  How  his  eyes  would 
glisten  as  he  described  the  waylaying  of  treasure  ships,  the 
desperate  fights,  yard  arm  and  yard  arm — broadside  and  broad 
side — the  boarding  and  capturing  of  large  Spanish  galleons! 
with  what  chuckling  relish  would  he  describe  the  descent  upon 
some  rich  Spanish  colony ;  the  rifling  of  a  church ;  the  sacking 
of  a  convent !  You  would  have  thought  you  heard  some  gor 
mandizer  dilating  upon  the  roasting  a  savory  goose  at  Michael 
mas  as  he  described  the  roasting  of  some  Spanish  Don  to  make 
him  discover  his  treasure — a  detail  given  with  a  minuteness 
that  made  every  rich  old  burgher  present  turn  uncomfortably 
in  his  chair.  All  this  would  be  told  with  infinite  glee,  as  if  he 
considered  it  an  excellent  joke ;  and  then  he  would  give  puch  a 
tyrannical  leer  in  the  face  of  his  next  neighbor,  that  the  poor 
man  would  be  fain  to  laugh  out  of  sheer  faint-heartedness.  If 
any  one,  however,  pretended  to  contradict  him  in  any  of  his 
stories  he  was  on  fire  in  an  instant.  His  very  cocked  hat 
assumed  a  momentary  fierceness,  and  seemed  to  resent  the  con 
tradiction. — "How  the  devil  should  you  know  as  well  as  I !  I 
tell  you  it  was  as  I  say !"  and  he  would  at  the  same  time  let  slip 
a  broadside  of  thundering  oaths  and  tremendous  sea  phrases, 
such  as  had  never  been  heard  before  within  those  peaceful 
walls. 

Indeed,  the  worthy  burghers  began  to  surmise  that  he  knew 
more  of  these  stories  than  mere  hearsay.  Day  after  day  their 
conjectures  concerning  him  grew  more  and  more  wild  and 
fearful.  The  strangeness  of  his  manners,  the  mystery  that 
surrounded  him,  all  made  him  something  incomprehensible  in 
their  eyes.  He  was  a  kind  of  monster  of  the  deep  to  them— he 
/  was  a  merman — he  was  behemoth— he  was  leviathan— in  short, 
they  knew  not  what  he  was. 

The  domineering  spirit  of  this  boisterous  sea  urchin  at  length 
grew  quite  intolerable.  He  was  no  respecter  of  persons;  he 
contradicted  the  richest  burghers  without  hesitation ;  he  took 
possession  of  the  sacred  elbow  chair,  which  time  out  of  mind 
had  been  the  seat  of  sovereignty  of  the  illustrious  Raima 
Rapelye.  Nay,  he  even  went  so  far  in  one  of  his  rough  jocular 
moods,  as  to  slap  that  mighty  burgher  on  the  back,  drink  his 
toddy  and  wink  in  his  face,  a  thing  scarcely  to  be  believed. 
From  this  time  Eamm  Eapelye  appeared  no  more  at  the  inn; 
his  example  was  followed  by  several  of  the  most  eminent  cus 
tomers,  who  were  too  rich  to  tolerate  being  bullied  out  of  their 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;   OR,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       241 

opinions,  or  being  obliged  to  laugb  at  another  man's  jokes. 
The  landlord  was  almost  in  despair,  but  he  knew  not  how  to 
get  rid  of  this  sea  monster  and  his  sea-chest,  which  seemed  to 
have  grown  like  fixtures,  or  excrescences  on  his  establish 
ment. 

Such  was  the  account  whispered  cautiously  in  Wolfert's  ear, 
by  the  narrator,  Peechy  Prauw,  as  he  held  him  by  the  button 
in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  casting  a  wary  glance  now  and  then 
towards  the  door  of  the  bar-room,  lest  he  should  be  overheard 
by  the  terrible  hero  of  his  tale. 

Wolf  ert  took  his  seat  in  a  remote  part  of  the  room  in  silence ; 
impressed  with  profound  awe  of  this  unknown,  so  versed  in 
f reebooting  history.  It  was  to  him  a  wonderful  instance  of  the 
revolutions  of  mighty  empires,  to  find  the  venerable  Ramm 
Eapelye  thus  ousted  from  the  throne ;  a  rugged  tarpaulin  dic 
tating  from  his  elbow  chair,  hectoring  the  patriarchs,  and  filling 
this  tranquil  little  realm  with  brawl  and  bravado. 

The  stranger  was  on  this  evening  in  a  more  than  usually  com 
municative  mood,  and  was  narrating  a  number  of  astounding 
stories  of  plunderings  and  burnings  upon  the  high  seas.  He 
dwelt  upon  them  with  peculiar  relish,  heightening  the  frightful 
particulars  in  proportion  to  their  effect  on  his  peaceful  auditors. 
He  gave  a  long  swaggering  detail  of  the  capture  of  a  Spanish 
merchantman.  She  was  laying  becalmed  during  a  long  sum 
mer's  day,  just  off  from  an  island  which  was  one  of  the  lurking 
places  of  the  pirates.  They  had  reconnoitred  her  with  their 
spy-glasses  from  the  shore,  and  ascertained  her  character  and 
force.  At  night  a  picked  crew  of  daring  fellows  set  off  for  her 
in  a  whale  boat.  They  approached  with  muffled  oars,  as  she 
lay  rocking  idly  with  the  undulations  of  the  sea  and  her  sails 
flapping  against  the  masts.  They  were  close  under  her  stern 
before  the  guard  on  deck  was  aware  of  their  approach.  The 
olarm  was  given;  the  pirates  threw  hand  grenades  on  deck  and 
sprang  up  the  main  chains  sword  in  hand. 

The  crew  flew  to  arms,  but  in  great  confusion  some  were 
shot  down,  others  took  refuge  in  the  tops ;  others  were  driven 
overboard  and  drowned,  while  others  fought  hand  to  hand 
from  the  main  deck  to  the  quarter  deck,  disputing  gallantly 
every  inch  of  ground.  There  were  three  Spanish  gentlemen  on 
board  with  their  ladies,  who  made  the  most  desperate  resis 
tance  ;  they  defended  the  companion-way,  cut  down  several  of 
their  assailants,  and  fought  like  very  devils,  for  they  were 
maddened  by  the  shrieks  of  the  ladies  from  the  cabin.  One  of 


242  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

the  Dons  was  old  and  soon  despatched.  The  other  two  kepi 
their  ground  vigorously,  even  though  the  captain  of  the  pirates 
was  among  their  assailants.  Just  then  there  was  a  shout  of 
victory  from  the  main  deck.  "The  ship  is  ours!"  cried  the 
pirates. 

One  of  the  Dons  immediately  dropped  his  sword  and  sur 
rendered;  the  other,  who  was  a  hot-headed  youngster,  and 
just  married,  gave  the  captain  a  slash  in  the  face  that  laid  all 
open.  The  captain  just  made  out  to  articulate  the  words  "  no 
quarter." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  their  prisoners  ?"  said  Peechy 
Prauw,  eagerly. 

"  Threw  them  all  overboard !"  said  the  merman. 

A  dead  pause  followed  this  reply.  Peechy  Prauw  shrunk 
quietly  back  like  a  man  who  had  unwarily  stolen  upon  the  lair  of 
a  sleeping  lion.  The  honest  burghers  cast  fearful  glances  at  the 
deep  scar  slashed  across  the  visage  of  the  stranger,  and  moved 
their  chairs  a  little  farther  off.  The  seaman,  however,  smoked 
on  without  moving  a  muscle,  as  though  he  either  did  not  per 
ceive  or  did  not  regard  the  unfavorable  effect  he  had  produced 
upon  his  hearers. 

The  half -pay  officer  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence ;  for  he 
was  continually  tempted  to  make  ineffectual  head  against  this 
tyrant  of  the  seas,  and  to  regain  his  lost  consequence  in  the 
eyes  of  his  ancient  companions.  He  now  tried  to  match  the 
gunpowder  tales  of  the  stranger  by  others  equally  tremendous. 
Kidd,  as  usual,  was  his  hero,  concerning  whom  he  had  picked 
up  many  of  the  floating  traditions  of  the  province.  The  sea 
man  had  always  evinced  a  settled  pique  against  the  red-faced 
warrior.  On  this  occasion  he  listened  with  peculiar  impatience. 
He  sat  with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  elbow  on  a  table,  the 
hand  holding  on  to  the  small  pipe  he  was  pettishly  puffing ;  his 
legs  crossed,  drumming  with  one  foot  on  the  ground  and  cast 
ing  every  now  and  then  the  side  glance  of  a  basilisk  at  the 
prosing  captain.  At  length  the  latter  spoke  of  Kidd's  having 
ascended  the  Hudson  with  some  of  his  crew,  to  land  his  plun 
der  in  secrecy. 

"  Kidd  up  the  Hudson!"  burst  forth  the  seaman,  with  a  tre 
mendous  oath;  "  Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson!" 

"I  tell  you  he  was,"  said  the  other.  "  Aye,  and  they  say  he 
buried  a  quantity  of  treasure  on  the  little  flat  that  runs  out 
into  the  river,  called  the  Devil's  Dans  Kammer.''' 

"The  Devil's  Dans  Kammer  in  your  teeth!"  cried  the  s«a 


WOLFERT  WEBBEti;   Oft,   GOLDEN  DREAMS. 

"  I  tell  you  Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson— what  the 
plague  do  you  know  of  Kidd  and  his  haunts  ?" 

"  What  do  I  know  ?"  echoed  the  half -pay  officer;  "  why,  I 
was  in  London  at  the  time  of  his  trial,  aye,  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  hanged  at  Execution  Dock." 

"  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  saw  as  pretty  a  fellow 
hanged  as  ever  trod  shoe  leather.  Aye!"  putting  his  face 
nearer  to  that  of  the  officer,  ' '  and  there  was  many  a  coward 
looked  on,  that  might  much  better  have  swung  in  his  stead. " 

The  half -pay  officer  was  silenced ;  but  the  indignation  thus 
pent  up  in  his  bosom  glowed  with  intense  vehemence  in  his 
single  eye,  which  kindled  like  a  coal. 

Peechy  Prauw,  who  never  could  remain  silent,  now  took  up 
the  word,  and  in  a  pacifying  tone  observed  that  the  gentleman 
certainly  was  in  the  right.  Kidd  never  did  bury  money  up 
the  Hudson,  nor  indeed  in  any  of  those  parts,  though  many 
affirm  the  fact.  It  was  Bradish  and  others  of  the  buccaneers 
who  had  buried  money,  some  said  in  Turtle  Bay,  others  on 
Long-Island,  others  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hell  Gate.  Indeed, 
added  he,  I  recollect  an  adventure  of  Mud  Sam,  the  negro 
fisherman,  many  years  ago,  which  some  think  had  something 
to  do  with  the  buccaneers.  As  we  are  all  friends  here,  and  as 
it  will  go  no  farther,  I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

"  Upon  a  dark  night  many  years  ago,  as  Sam  was  returning 
from  fishing  in  Hell  Gate — " 

Here  the  story  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a  sudden  movement 
from  the  unknown,  who,  laying  his  iron  fist  on  the  table, 
knuckles  downward,  with  a  quiet  force  that  indented  the  very 
boards,  and  looking  grimly  over  his  shoulder,  with  the  grin  of 
an  angry  bear.  "  Heark'ee,  neighbor,"  said  he,  with  signifi 
cant  nodding  of  the  head,  ' '  you'd  better  let  the  buccaneers  and 
their  money  alone — they're  not  for  old  men  and  old  women  to 
meddle  with.  They  fought  hard  for  their  money,  they  gave 
body  and  soul  for  it,  and  wherever  it  lies  buried,  depend  upon 
it  he  must  have  a  tug  with  the  devil  who  gets  it." 

This  sudden  explosion  was  succeeded  by  a  blank  silence 
throughout  the  room.  Peechy  Prauw  shrunk  within  himself , 
and  even  the  red-faced  officer  turned  pale.  Wolf ert,  who,  from 
a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  had  listened  with  intense  eagerness 
to  all  this  talk  about  buried  treasure,  looked  with  mingled  awe 
and  reverence  on  this  bold  buccaneer,  for  such  he  really  sus 
pected  him  to  be.  There  was  a  chinking  of  gold  and  a  spark- 
ling  of  jewels  in  all  his  stories  about  the  Spanish  Main  that 


244  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

gave  a  value  to  every  period,  and  Wolfert  would  have  given 
any  thing  for  the  rummaging  of  the  ponderous  sea-chest,  which 
his  imagination  crammed  full  of  golden  chalices  and  crucifixes 
and  jolly  round  bags  of  doubloons. 

The  dead  stillness  that  had  fallen  upon  the  company  was  at 
length  interrupted  by  the  stranger,  who  pulled  out  a  prodigious 
watch  of  curious  and  ancient  workmanship,  and  which  in  Wol- 
frets'  eyes  had  a  decidedly  Spanish  look.  On  touching  a  spring 
it  struck  ten  o'clock;  upon  which  the  sailor  called  for  his 
reckoning,  and  having  paid  it  out  of  a  handful  of  outlandish 
coin,  he  drank  off  the  remainder  of  his  beverage,  and  without 
taking  leave  of  any  one,  rolled  out  of  the  room,  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  stamped  up-stairs  to  his  chamber. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  company  could  recover  from  the 
silence  into  which  they  had  been  thrown.  The  very  footsteps 
of  the  stranger,  which  were  heard  now  and  then  as  he  trav 
ersed  his  chamber,  inspired  awe. 

Still  the  conversation  in  which  they  had  been  engaged  was 
too  interesting  not  to  be  resumed.  A  heavy  thunder-gust  had 
gathered  up  unnoticed  while  they  were  lost  in  talk,  and  the 
torrents  of  rain  that  fell  forbade  all  thoughts  of  setting  off  for 
home  until  the  storm  should  subside.  They  drew  nearer 
together,  therefore,  and  entreated  the  worthy  Peechy  Prauw 
to  continue  the  tale  which  had  been  so  discourteously  inter 
rupted.  He  readily  complied,  whispering,  however,  in  a  tone 
scarcely  above  his  breath,  and  drowned  occasionally  by  the 
rolling  of  the  thunder,  and  he  would  pause  every  now  and 
then,  and  listen  with  evident  awe,  as  he  heard  the  heavy  foot 
steps  of  the  stranger  pacing  overhead. 

The  following  is  the  purport  of  his  story. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,  THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN. 

COMMONLY  DENOMINATED  MUD  SAM. 

EVERY  body  knows  Mud  Sam,  the  old  negro  fisherman  who 
has  fished  about  the  Sound  for  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years. 
Well,  it  is  now  many  years  since  that  Sam,  who  was  then  a 
young  fellow,  and  worked  on  the  farm  of  Killian  Suydam  on 
Long  Island,  having  finished  his  work  early,  was  fishing,  one 


ADVENTURE  OF  8AM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN. 

still  summer  evening,  just  about  the  neighborhood  of  Hell 
Gate.  He  was  in  a  light  skiff,  and  being  well  acquainted  with 
the  currents  and  eddies,  he  had  been  able  to  shift  his  station 
with  the  shifting  of  the  tide,  from  the  Hen  and  Chickens  to  the 
Hog's  back,  and  from  the  Hog's  back  to  the  Pot,  and  from  the 
Pot  to  the  Frying-pan ;  but  in  the  eagerness  of  his  sport  Sam 
did  not  see  that  the  tide  was  rapidly  ebbing ;  until  the  roaring 
of  the  whirlpools  and  rapids  warned  him  of  his  danger,  and  he 
had  some  difficulty  in  shooting  his  skiff  from  among  the  rocks 
and  breakers,  and  getting  to  the  point  of  Blackwell's  Island.  * 
Here  he  cast  anchor  for  some  time,  waiting  the  turn  of  the  tide 
to  enable  him  to  return  homewards.  As  the  night  set  in  it 
grew  blustering  and  gusty.  Dark  clouds  came  bundling  up  in" 
the  west ;  and  now  and  then  a  growl  of  thunder  or  a  flash  of 
lightning  told  that  a  summer  storm  was  at  hand.  Sam  pulled 
over,  therefore,  under  the  lee  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  coast 
ing  along  came  to  a  snug  nook,  just  under  a  steep  beetling 
rock,  where  he  fastened  his  skiff  to  the  root  of  a  tree  that  shot 
out  from  a  cleft  and  spread  its  broad  branches  like  a  canopy 
over  the  water.  The  gust  came  scouring  along;  the  wind 
threw  up  the  river  in  white  surges ;  the  rain  rattled  among  the 
leaves,  the  thunder  bellowed  worse  than  that  which  is  now 
bellowing,  the  lightning  seemed  to  lick  up  the  surges  of  the 
stream;  "but  Sam,  snugly  sheltered  under  rock  and  tree,  lay 
crouched  in  his  skiff,  rocking  upon  the  billows,  until  he  fell 
asleep.  When  he  awoke  all  was  quiet.  The  gust  had  passed 
away,  and  only  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  of  lightning  in  the 
east  showed  which  way  it  had  gone.  The  night  was  dark  and 
moonless ;  and  from  the  state  of  the  tide  Sam  concluded  it  was 
near  midnight.  He  was  on  the  point  of  making  loose  his  skiff 
to  return  homewards,  when  he  saw  a  light  gleaming  along  the 
water  from  a  distance,  which  seemed  rapidly  approaching. 
As  it  drew  near  he  perceived  that  it  came  from  a  lanthorn  in 
the  bow  of  a  boat  which  was  gliding  along  under  shadow  of  the 
lanii.  It  pulled  up  in  a  small  cove,  close  to  where  he  was.  A 
man  jumped  on  shore,  and  searching  about  with  the  lanthorn 
exclaimed,  "This  is  the  place— here's  the  Iron  ring.'?  The 
boat  was  then  made  fast,  and  the  man  returning  on  board, 
assisted  his  comrades  in  conveying  something  heavy  on 
shore.  As  the  light  gleamed  among  them,  Sam  saw  that  they 
were  five  stout,  desperate-looking  fellows,  in  red  woollen  caps, 
with  a  leader  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  and  that  some  of  them 
were  armed  with  dirks,  or  long  knives,  and  pistols.  They 


246  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

talked  low  to  one  another,  and  occasionally  in  some  outlandish 
tongue  which  he  could  not  understand. 

On  landing  they  made  their  way  among  the  bushes,  taking 
turns  to  relieve  each  other  in  lugging  their  burthen  up  the 
rocky  bank.  Sam's  curiosity  was  now  fully  aroused,  so  leav 
ing  his  skiff  he  clambered  silently  up  the  ridge  that  overlooked 
their  path.  They  had  stopped  to  rest  for  a  moment,  and  the 
leader  was  looking  about  among  the  bushes  with  his  lanthorn. 
"  Have  you  brought  the  spades?"  said  one.  "  They  are  here," 
replied  another,  who  had  them  on  his  shoulder.  ' '  We  must  dig 
deep,  where  there  will  be  no  risk  of  discovery,"  said  a  third. 

A  cold  chill  ran  through  Sam's  veins.  He  fancied  he  saw 
before  him  a  gang  of  murderers,  about  to  bury  their  victim. 
His  knees  smote  together.  In  his  agitation  he  shook  the 
branch  of  a  tree  with  which  he  was  supporting  himself  as  he 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"What's  that?"  cried  one  of  the  gang.  "Some  one  stirs 
among  the  bushes !" 

The  lanthorn  was  held  up  in  the  direction  of  the  noise.  One 
of  the  red-caps  cocked  a  pistol,  and  pointed  it  towards  the  very 
place  where  Sam  was  standing.  He  stood  motionless — 
breathless ;  expecting  the  next  moment  to  be  his  last.  Fortu 
nately,  his  dingy  complexion  was  in  his  favor,  and  made  no 
glare  among  the  leaves. 

"  Tis  no  one,"  said  the  man  with  the  lanthorn.  "  What  a 
plague!  you  would  not  fire  off  your  pistol  and  alarm  the 
country." 

The  pistol  was  uncocked ;  the  burthen  was  resumed,  and  the 
party  slowly  toiled  up  the  bank.  Sam  watched  them  as  they 
went ;  the  light  sending  back  fitful  gleams  through  the  drip 
ping  bushes,  and  it  was  not  till  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight 
that  he  ventured  to  draw  breath  freely.  He  now  thought  of 
getting  back  to  his  boat,  and  making  his  escape  out  of  the 
reach  of  such  dangerous  neighbors ;  but  curiosity  was  all-pow 
erful  with  poor  Sam.  He  hesitated  and  lingered  and  listened. 
By  and  bye  he  heard  the  strokes  of  spades. 

"  They  are  digging  the  grave!"  said  he  to  himself;  the  cold 
sweat  started  upon  his  forehead.  Every  stroke  of  a  spade,  as 
it  sounded  through  the  silent  groves,  went  to  his  heart ;  it  was 
evident  there  was  as  little  noise  made  as  possible ;  eveiy  thing 
had  an  air  of  mystery  and  secrecy.  Sam  had  a  great  relish  for 
the  horrible— a  tale  of  murder  was  a  treat  for  him;  and  he  was 
a  constant  attendant  at  executions.  He  could  not,  therefore, 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.  247 

resist  an  impulse,  in  spite  of  every  danger,  to  steal  nearer,  and 
overlook  the  villains  at  their  work.  He  crawled  along  cau 
tiously,  therefore,  inch  by  inch ;  stepping  with  the  utmost  care 
among  the  dry  leaves,  lest  their  rustling  should  betray  him.  He 
came  at  length  to  where  a  steep  rock  intervened  between  him 
and  the  gang ;  he  saw  the  light  of  their  lanthom  shining  up 
against  the  branches  of  the  trees  on  the  other  side.  Sam 
slowly  and  silently  clambered  up  the  surface  of  the  rock,  and 
raising  his  head  above  its  naked  edge,  beheld  the  villains 
immediately  below  him,  and  so  near  that  though  he  dreaded 
discovery,  he  dared  not  withdraw  lest  the  least  movement 
should  be  heard.  In  this  way  he  remained,  with  his  round 
black  face  peering  over  the  edge  of  the  rock,  like  the  sun 
just  emerging  above  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  or  the  round- 
cheeked  moon  on  the  dial  of  a  clock. 

The  red-caps  had  nearly  finished  their  work ;  the  grave  was 
filled  up,  and  they  were  carefully  replacing  the  turf.  This 
done,  they  scattered  dry  leaves  over  the  place.  "And  now," 
said  the  leader,  "  I  defy  the  devil  himself  to  find  it  out." 

"  The  murderers !"  exclaimed  Sam  involuntarily. 

The  whole  gang  started,  and  looking  up,  beheld  the  round 
black  head  of  Sam  just  above  them.  His  white  eyes  strained 
half  out  of  their  orbits ;  his  white  teeth  chattering,  and  his 
whole  visage  shining  with  cold  perspiration. 

"  We're  discovered !"  cried  one. 

"  Down  with  him!"  cried  another. 

Sam  heard  the  cocking  of  a  pistol,  but  did  not  pause  for 
the  report.  He  scrambled  over  rock  and  stone,  through  bush 
and  briar ;  rolled  down  banks  like  a  hedgehog ;  scrambled  up 
others  like  a  catamount.  In  every  direction  he  heard  some  one 
or  other  of  the  gang  hemming  him  in.  At  length  he  reached 
the  rocky  ridge  along  the  river ;  one  of  the  red-caps  was  hard 
behind  him.  A  steep  rock  like  a  wall  rose  directly  in  his  way ; 
it  seemed  to  cut  off  all  retreat,  when  he  espied  the  strong  cord- 
like  branch  of  a  grape-vine  reaching  half  way  down  it.  He 
sprang  at  it  with  the  force  of  a  desperate  man,  seized  it  with 
both  hands,  and  being  young  and  agile,  succeeded  in  swinging 
himself  to  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  Here  he  stood  in  full  relief 
against  the  sky,  when  the  red-cap  cocked  his  pistol  and  fired. 
The  ball  whistled  by  Sam's  head.  With  the  lucky  thought  of 
a  man  in  an  emergency,  he  uttered  a  yell,  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  detached  at  the  same  time  a  fragment  of  the  rock,  wf  dch 
tumbled  with  a  loud  splash  into  the  river. 


248  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

"I've  done  his  business,"  said  the  red-cap,  to  one  or  two  of 
his  comrades  as  they  arrived  panting.  "He'll  tell  no  tales, 
except  to  the  fishes  in  the  river. " 

His  pursuers  now  turned  oif  to  meet  their  companions.  Sam 
sliding  silently  down  the  surface  of  the  rock,  let  himself  quietly 
into  his  skiff,  cast  loose  the  fastening,  and  abandoned  himself 
to  the  rapid  current,  which  in  that  place  runs  like  a  mill-stream, 
and  soon  swept  him  off  from  the  neighborhood.  It  was  not, 
however,  until  he  had  drifted  a  great  distance  that  he  ventured 
to  ply  his  oars ;  when  he  made  his  skiff  dart  like  an  arrow 
through  the  strait  of  Hell  Gate,  never  heeding  the  danger  of 
Pot,  Frying-pan,  or  Hog's-back  itself;  nor  did  he  feel  himself 
thoroughly  secure  until  safely  nestled  in  bed  in  the  cockloft  of 
the  ancient  farm-house  of  the  Suydams. 

Here  the  worthy  Peechy  paused  to  take  breath  and  to  take  a 
sip  of  the  gossip  tankard  that  stood  at  his  elbow.  His  auditors 
remained  with  open  mouths  and  outstretched  necks,  gaping 
like  a  nest  of  swallows  for  an  additional  mouthful. 

"  And  is  that  all?"  exclaimed  the  half -pay  officer. 

"  That's  all  that  belongs  to  the  story,"  said  Peechy  Prauw. 

"  And  did  Sam  never  find  out  what  was  buried  by  the  red 
caps?"  said  Wolfert,  eagerly;  whose  mind  was  haunted  by 
nothing  but  ingots  and  doubloons. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of ;  he  had  no  time  to  spare  from  his  work ; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  like  to  run  the  risk  of  another 
race  among  the  rocks.  Besides,  how  should  he  recollect  the 
spot  where  the  grave  had  been  digged?  every  thing  would  look 
different  by  daylight.  And  then,  where  was  the  use  of  looking 
for  a  dead  body,  when  there  was  no  chance  of  hanging  the 
murderers?" 

"  Aye,  but  are  you  sure  it  was  a  dead  body  they  buried?"  said 
Wolfert. 

"  To  be  sure, "  cried  Peechy  Prauw,  exultingly.  ' '  Does  it  not 
haunt  in  the  neighborhood  to  this  very  day?" 

"  Haunts !"  exclaimed  several  of  the  party,  opening  their  eyes 
still  wider  and  edging  their  chairs  still  closer. 

"Aye,  haunts,"  repeated  Peechy ;  "  has  none  of  you  heard  of 
father  red-cap  that  haunts  the  old  burnt  farm-house  in  the 
woods,  on  the  border  of  the  Sound,  near  Hell  Gate?" 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  I've  heard  tell  of  something  of  the  kind,  but 
then  I  took  it  for  some  old  wives'  fable." 

"  Old  wives'  fable  or  not,"  said  Peechy  Prauw,  "  that  farm 
house  stands  hard  by  the  very  spot.  It's  been  unoccupied  time 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   249 

out  of  mind,  and  stands  in  a  wild,  lonely  part  of  the  coast ;  but 
those  who  fish  in  the  neighborhood  have  often  heard  strange 
noises  there ;  and  lights  have  been  seen  about  the  wood  at  night ; 
and  an  old  fellow  in  a  red  cap  has  been  seen  at  the  windows 
more  than  once,  which  people  take  to  be  the  ghost  of  the  body 
that  was  buried  there.  Once  upon  a  time  three  soldiers  took 
shelter  in  the  building  for  the  night,  and  rummaged  it  from  top 
to  bottom,  when  they  found  old  father  red-cap  astride  of  a  cider- 
barrel  in  the  cellar,  with  a  jug  in  one  hand  and  a  goblet  in  the 
other.  He  offered  them  a  drink  out  of  his  goblet,  but  just  as 
one  of  the  soldiers  was  putting  it  to  his  mouth — Whew !  a  flash 
of  fire  blazed  through  the  cellar,  bunded  every  mother's  son 
of  them  for  several  minutes,  and  when  they  recovered  their 
eye-sight,  jug,  goblet,  and  red-cap  had  vanished,  and  nothing 
but  the  empty  cider- barrel  remained." 

Here  the  half -pay  officer,  who  was  growing  very  muzzy  and 
sleepy,  and  nodding  over  his  liquor,  with  half -extinguished  eye, 
suddenly  gleamed  up  like  an  expiring  rushlight. 

"That's  all  humbug!"  said  he,  as  Peechy  finished  his  last 
story. 

"  Well,  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it  myself,"  said  Peechy 
Prauw,  "though  all  the  world  knows  that  there's  something 
strange  about  the  house  and  grounds ;  but  as  to  the  story  of 
Mud  Sam,  I  believe  it  just  as  well  as  if  it  had  happened  to 
myself. " 

The  deep  interest  taken  in  this  conversation  by  the  company, 
had  made  them  unconscious  of  the  uproar  that  prevailed  abroad* 
among  the  elements,  when  suddenly  they  were  all  electrified 
by  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder.  A  lumbering  crash  followed 
instantaneously  that  made  the  building  shake  to  its  foundation. 
All  started  from  their  seats,  imagining  it  the  shock  of  an  earth 
quake,  or  that  old  father  red-cap  was  coming  among  them  in 
all  his  terrors.  They  listened  for  a  moment,  but  only  heard  the 
rain  pelting  against  the  windows,  and  the  wind  howling  among 
the  trees.  The  explosion  was  soon  explained  by  the  apparition 
of  an  old  negro's  bald  head  thrust  in  at  the  door,  his  white 
goggle  eyes  contrasting  with  his  jetty  poll,  which  was  wet  with 
rain  and  shone  like  a  bottle.  In  a  jargon  but  half  intelligible 
he  announced  that  the  kitchen  chimney  had  been  struck  with 
lightning. 

A  sullen  pause  of  the  storm,  which  now  rose  and  sunk  in 
gusts,  produced  a  momentary  stillness.  In  this  interval  the 
report  of  a  musket  was  heard,  and  a  long  shout,  almost  like  a 


250  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

yell,  resounded  from  the  shore.  Every  one  crowded  to  the 
window;  another  musket  shot  was  heard,  and  another  long 
shout,  that  mingled  wildly  with  a  rising  blast  of  wind.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  cry  came  up  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters ;  for 
though  incessant  flashes  of  lightning  spread  a  light  about  the 
shore,  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

Suddenly  the  window  of  the  room  overhead  was  opened,  and 
a  loud  halloo  uttered  by  the  mysterious  stranger.  Several  hail- 
ings  passed  from  one  party  to  the  other,  but  in  a  language 
which  none  of  the  company  in  the  bar-room  could  understand ; 
and  presently  they  heard  the  window  closed,  and  a  great  noise 
overhead  as  if  all  the  furniture  were  pulled  and  hauled  about 
the  room.  The  negro  servant  was  summoned,  and  shortly  after 
was  seen  assisting  the  veteran  to  lug  the  ponderous  sea-chest 
down  stairs. 

The  landlord  was  in  amazement.  "  What,  you  are  not  going 
on  the  water  in  such  a  storm?" 

"Storm!"  said  the  other,  scornfully,  "do  you  call  such  a 
sputter  of  weather  a  storm?" 

"  You'll  get  drenched  to  the  skin — You'll  catch  your  death  1" 
said  Peechy  Prauw,  affectionately. 

"Thunder  and  h'ghtning!"  exclaimed  the  merman,  "don't 
preach  about  weather  to  a  man  that  has  cruised  in  whirlwinds 
and  tornadoes." 

The  obsequious  Peechy  was  again  struck  dumb.  The  voice 
from  the  water  was  again  heard  in  a  tone  of  impatience ;  the 
bystanders  stared  with  redoubled  awe  at  this  man  of  storms, 
which  seemed  to  have  come  up  out  of  the  deep  and  to  be  called 
back  to  it  again.  As,  with  the  assistance  of  the  negro,  he  slowly 
bore  his  ponderous  sea-chest  towards  the  shore,  they  eyed  it 
with  a  superstitious  f  eeling ;  half  doubting  whether  he  were  not 
really  about  to  embark  upon  it,  and  launch  forth  upon  the  wild 
waves.  They  followed  him  at  a  distance  with  a  lanthorn. 

"  Douse  the  light!"  roared  the  hoarse  voice  from  the  water. 
**  No  one  wants  light  here !" 

"  Thunder  and  h'ghtning!"  exclaimed  the  veteran;  "back  to 
the  house  with  you !" 

Wolfert  and  his  companions  shrunk  back  is  dismay.  Still 
their  curiosity  would  not  allow  them  entirely  to  withdraw.  A 
long  sheet  of  ligntning  now  flickered  across  the  waves,  and 
discovered  a  boat,  filled  with  men,  just  under  a  rocky  point, 
rising  and  sinking  with  the  heavy  surges,  and  swashing  the 
water  at  every  heave.  It  was  with  difficulty  held  to  the  rocka 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   251 

by  a  boat  hook,  for  the  current  rushed  furiously  round  the 
point.  The  veteran  hoisted  one  end  of  the  lumbering  sea-chest 
on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat ;  he  seized  the  handle  at  the  other 
end  to  lift  it  in,  when  the  motion  propelled  the  boat  from  the 
shore;  the  chest  slipped  off  from  the  gunwale,  sunk  into  the 
waves,  and  pulled  the  veteran  headlong  after  it.  A  loud  shriek 
was  uttered  by  all  on  shore,  and  a  volley  of  execrations  by 
those  on  board ;  but  boat  and  man  were  hurried  away  by  the 
rushing  swiftness  of  the  tide.  A  pitchy  darkness  succeeded ; 
Wolfert  Webber  indeed  fancied  that  he  distinguished  a  cry  for 
help,  and  that  he  beheld  the  drowning  man  beckoning  for 
assistance;  but  when  the  lightning  again  gleamed  along  the 
water  all  was  drear  and  void.  Neither  man  nor  boat  was  to  be 
seen ;  nothing  but  the  dashing  and  weltering  of  the  waves  as 
they  hurried  past. 

The  company  returned  to  the  tavern,  for  they  could  not 
leave  it  before  the  storm  should  subside.  They  resumed  their* 
seats  and  gazed  on  each  other  with  dismay.  The  whole  transac 
tion  had  not  occupied  five  minutes  and  not  a  dozen  words  had 
been  spoken.  When  they  looked  at  the  oaken  chair  they 
could  scarcely  realize  the  fact  that  the  strange  being  who  had 
so  lately  tenanted  it,  full  of  life  and  Herculean  vigor,  should 
already  be  a  corpse.  There  was  the  very  glass  he  had  just 
drunk  from ;  there  lay  the  ashes  from  the  pipe  which  he  had 
smoked  as  it  were  with  his  last  breath.  As  the  worthy  bur 
ghers  pondered  on  these  things,  they  felt  a  terrible  conviction 
of  the  uncertainty  of  human  existence,  and  each  felt  as  if  the 
ground  on  which  he  stood  was  rendered  less  stable  by  this  awful 
example. 

As,  however,  the  most  of  the  company  were  possessed  of  that 
valuable  philosophy  which  enables  a  man  to  bear  up  with  for 
titude  against  the  misfortunes  of  his  neighbors,  they  soon 
managed  to  console  themselves  for  the  tragic  end  of  the  veteran. 
The  landlord  was  happy  that  the  poor  dear  man  had  paid  his 
reckoning  before  he  went. 

' '  He  came  in  a  storm,  and  he  went  in  a  storm ;  he  came  in 
the  night,  and  he  went  in  the  night ;  he  came  nobody  knows 
from  whence,  and  he  has  gone  nobody  knows  where.  For 
aught  I  know  he  has  gone  to  sea  once  more  on  his  chest  and 
may  land  to  bother  some  people  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  1 
Though  it's  a  thousand  pities,"  added  the  landlord,  "if  he  has 
gone  to  Davy  Jones  that  he  had  not  left  his  sea-chest  behind 
him." 


252  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

"The  sea-chest!  St.  Nicholas  preserve  us!"  said  Peechy 
Prairw.  "  I'd  not  have  had  that  sea-chest  in  the  house  for  any 
money ;  I'll  warrant  he'd  come  racketing  after  it  at  nights,  and 
making  a  haunted  house  of  the  inn.  And  as  to  his  going  to  sea 
on  his  chest,  I  recollect  what  happened  to  Skipper  Onderdonk's 
*ship  on  his  voyage  from  Amsterdam. 

"  The  boatswain  died  during  a  storm,  so  they  wrapped  him 
up  in  a  sheet,  and  put  him  in  his  own  sea-chest,  and  threw  him 
overboard;  but  they  neglected  in  their  hurry-skurry  to  say 
prayers  over  him — and  the  storm  raged  and  roared  louder  than 
ever,  and  they  saw  the  dead  man  seated  in  his  chest,  with  his 
shroud  for  a  sail,  coming  hard  after  the  ship;  and  the  sea 
breaking  before  him  in  great  sprays  like  fire,  and  there  they 
kept  scudding  day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  expecting 
every  moment  to  go  to  wreck ;  and  every  night  they  saw  the 
dead  boatswain  in  his  sea-chest  trying  to  get  up  with  them, 
and  they  heard  his  whistle  above  the  blasts  of  wind,  and  he 
seemed  to  send  great  seas  mountain  high  after  them,  that 
would  have  swamped  the  ship  if  they  had  not  put  up  the  dead 
lights.  And  so  it  went  on  till  they  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  fogs 
of  Newfoundland,  and  supposed  he  had  veered  ship  and  stood 
for  Dead  Man's  Isle.  So  much  for  burying  a  man  at  sea  with 
out  saying  prayers  over  him." 

The  thunder-gust  which  had  hitherto  detained  the  company 
was  now  at  an  end.  The  cuckoo  clock  in  the  hall  struck  mid 
night  ;  every  one  pressed  to  depart,  for  seldom  was  such  a  late 
hour  trespassed  on  by  these  quiet  burghers.  As  they  sallied 
forth  they  found  the  heavens  once  more  serene.  The  storm 
which  had  lately  obscured  them  had  rolled  away,  and  lay  piled 
up  in  fleecy  masses  on  the  horizon,  lighted  up  by  the  bright 
crescent  of  the  moon,  which  looked  like  a  silver  lamp  hung  up 
in  a  palace  of  clouds. 

The  dismal  occurrence  of  the  night,  and  the  dismal  narra 
tions  they  had  made,  had  left  a  superstitious  feeling  in  every 
mind.  They  cast  a  fearful  glance  at  the  spot  where  the  bucca 
neer  had  disappeared,  almost  expecting  to  see  him  sailing  on 
his  chest  in  the  cool  moonshine.  The  trembling  rays  glittered 
along  the  waters,  but  all  was  placid ;  and  the  current  dimpled 
over  the  spot  where  he  had  gone  down.  The  party  huddled  to 
gether  in  a  little  crowd  as  they  repaired  homewards ;  particularly 
when  they  passed  a  lonely  field  where  a  man  had  been  mur 
dered  ;  and  he  who  had  farthest  to  go  and  had  to  complete  his 
journey  alone,  though  a  veteran  sexton,  and  accustomed,  one 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.  203 


think  to  ghosts  and  goblins,  yet  went  a  long  way  round, 
rather  than  pass  by  his  own  church-yard. 

Wolf  ert  Webber  had  now  carried  home  a  fresh  stock  of  stories 
and  notions  to  ruminate  upon.  His  mind  was  all  of  a  whirl 
with  these  f  reebooting  tales  ;  and  then  these  accounts  of  pots 
of  money  and  Spanish  treasures,  buried  here  and  there  and 
every  where  about  the  rocks  and  bays  of  this  wild  shore,  made 
him  almost  dizzy. 

"  Blessed  St.  Nicholas!"  ejaculated  he,  half  aloud,  "is  it  not 
possible  to  come  upon  one  of  these  golden  hoards,  and  so  make 
one's  self  rich  in  a  twinkling.  How  hard  that  I  must  go  on, 
delving  and  delving,  day  in  and  day  out,  merely  to  make  a 
morsel  of  bread,  when  one  lucky  stroke  of  a  spade  might  en 
able  me  to  ride  in  my  carriage  for  the  rest  of  my  life  !" 

As  he  turned  over  in  his  thoughts  all  that  he  had  been  told 
of  the  singular  adventure  of  the  black  fisherman,  his  imagina 
tion  gave  a  totally  different  complexion  to  the  tale.  He  saw  in 
the  gang  of  redcaps  nothing  but  a  crew  of  pirates  burying  their 
spoils,  and  his  cupidity  was  once  more  awakened  by  the  possi 
bility  of  at  length  getting  on  the  traces  of  some  of  this  lurking 
wealth.  Indeed,  his  infected  fancy  tinged  every  thing  with 
gold.  He  felt  like  the  greedy  inhabitant  of  Bagdad,  when  hia 
eye  had  been  greased  with  the  magic  ointment  of  the  dervise, 
that  gave  him  to  see  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth.  Caskets  ol 
buried  jewels,  chests  of  ingots,  bags  of  outlandish  coins,  seemed 
to  court  him  from  their  concealments,  and  supplicate  him  to 
relieve  them  from  their  untimely  graves. 

On  making  private  inquiries  about  the  grounds  said  to  be 
haunted  by  father  red-cap,  he  was  more  and  more  conrmed  in 
his  surmise.  He  learned  that  the  place  had  several  times  been 
visited  by  experienced  money  -diggers,  who  had  heard  Mud 
Sam's  story,  though  none  of  them  had  met  with  success.  On 
the  contrary,  they  had  always  been  dogged  with  ill  luck  of 
some  kind  or  other,  in  consequence,  as  Wolfert  concluded,  of 
their  not  going  to  work  at  the  proper  tune,  and  with  the 
proper  ceremonials.  The  last  attempt  had  been  made  by 
Cobus  Quackenbos,  who  dug  for  a  whole  night  and  met  with 
incredible  difficulty,  for  as  fast  as  he  threw  one  shovel  full  of 
earth  out  of  the  hole,  two  were  thrown  in  by  invisible  hands. 
He  succeeded  so  far,  however,  as  to  uncover  an  iron  chest, 
when  there  was  a  terrible  roaring,  and  ramping,  and  raging  of 
uncouth  ^gures  about  the  hole,  and  at  length  a  shower  of 
blows,  dealt  by  invisible  cudgels,  that  fairly  belabored  him  off 


254  TALES  OP  A   TRAVELLER. 

the  forbidden  ground.  This  Cobue  Quackenbos  had  declared 
on  his  death-bed,  so  that  there  could  not  be  any  doubt  of  it, 
He  was  a  man  that  had  devoted  many  years  of  his  life  to  money- 
digging,  and  it  was  thought  would  have  ultimately  succeeded, 
had  he  not  died  suddenly  of  a  brain  fever  in  the  alms-house. 

Wolfert  Webber  was  now  in  a  worry  of  trepidation  and 
impatience;  fearful  lest  some  rival  adventurer  should  get  a 
scent  of  the  buried  gold.  He  determined  privately  to  seek  out 
the  negro  fisherman  and  get  him  to  serve  as  guide  to  the 
place  where  he  had  witnessed  the  mysterious  scene  of  inter 
ment.  Sam  was  easily  found;  for  he  was  one  of  those  old 
habitual  beings  that  live  about  a  neighborhood  until  they  wear 
themselves  a  place  in  the  public  mind,  and  become,  in  a  man- 
mer,  public  characters.  There  was  not  an  unlucky  urchin 
about  the  town  that  did  not  know  Mud  Sam  the  fisherman, 
and  think  that  he  had  a  right  to  play  his  tricks  upon  the  old 
negro.  Sam  was  an  amphibious  kind  of  animal,  something 
more  of  a  fish  than  a  man ;  he  had  led  the  lif e  of  an  otter  for 
more  than  half  a  century,  about  the  shores  of  the  bay,  and  the 
fishing  grounds  of  the  Sound.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of 
liis  time  on  and  in  the  water,  particularly  about  Hell  Gate; 
and  might  have  been  taken,  in  bad  weather,  for  one  of  the 
hobgoblins  that  used  to  haunt  that  strait.  There  would  he  be 
seen,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  weathers ;  sometimes  in  his  skiff, 
anchored  among  the  eddies,  or  prowling,  like  a  shar&  about  some 
wreck,  where  the  fish  are  supposed  to  be  most  abundant. 
Sometimes  seated  on  a  rock  from  hour  to  hour,  looming 
through  mist  and  drizzle,  like  a  solitary  heron  watching  for  its 
prey.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  every  hole  and  corner  of 
the  Sound ;  from  the  Wallabout  to  Hell  Gate,  and  from  Hell 
Gate  even  unto  the  Devil's  Stepping  Stones ;  and  it  was  even 
affirmed  that  he  knew  all  the  fish  in  the  river  by  their  Chris 
tian  names. 

Wolfert  found  him  at  his  cabin,  which  was  not  much  larger 
than  a  tolerable  dog-house.  It  was  rudely  constructed  of  frag 
ments  of  wrecks  and  drift-wood,  and  built  on  the  rocky  shore, 
at  the  foot  of  the  old  fort,  just  about  what  at  present  forms  the 
point  of  the  Battery.  A  "most  ancient  and  fish-like  smell" 
pervaded  the  place.  Oars,  paddles,  and  fishing-rods  were  lean 
ing  against  the  wall  of  the  fort ,  a  net  was  spread  on  the  sands 
to  dry ;  a  skiff  was  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  and  at  the  door  ot 
his  cabin  lay  Mud  Sam  himself,  indulging  in  a  true  negro's 
luxury— sleeping  in  the  sunshine. 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   255 

Many  years  had  passed  away  since  the  time  of  Sam's  youth 
ful  adventure,  and  the  snows  of  many  a  winter  had  grizzled 
the  knotty  wool  upon  his  head.  He  perfectly  recollected  the 
circumstances,  however,  for  he  had  often  been  called  upon  to 
relate  them,  though  in  his  version  of  the  story  he  differed 
in  many  points  from  Peechy  Prauw;  as  is  not  unfrequently 
the  case  with  authentic  historians.  As  to  the  subsequent 
researches  of  money -diggers,  Sam  knew  nothing  about  them ; 
they  were  matters  quite  out  of  his  line;  neither  did  the  cau 
tious  Wolfert  care  to  disturb  his  thoughts  on  that  point.  His 
only  wish  was  to  secure  the  old  fisherman  as  a  pilot  to  the 
spot,  and  this  was  readily  effected.  The  long  time  that  had 
intervened  since  his  nocturnal  adventure  had  effaced  all  Sam's 
awe  of  the  place,  and  the  promise  of  a  trifling  reward  roused 
him  at  once  from  his  sleep  and  his  sunshine. 

The  tide  was  adverse  to  making  the  expedition  by  water, 
and  Wolfert  was  too  impatient  to  get  to  the  land  of  promise, 
to  wait  for  its  turning ;  they  set  off,  therefore,  by  land.  A 
walk  of  four  or  five  miles  brought  them  to  the  edge  of  a  wood, 
which  at  that  time  covered  the  greater  part  of  the  eastern  side 
of  the  island.  It  was  just  beyond  the  pleasant  region  of 
Bloomen-dael.  Here  they  struck  into  a  long  lane,  straggling 
among  trees  and  bushes,  very  much  overgrown  with  weeds 
and  mullein  stalks  as  if  but  seldom  used,  and  so  completely 
overshadowed  as  to  enjoy  but  a  kind  of  twilight.  Wild  vines 
entangled  the  trees  and  flaunted  in  their  faces ;  brambles  and 
briars  caught  their  clothes  as  they  passed;  the  garter-snake 
glided  across  their  path ;  the  spotted  toad  hopped  and  waddled 
before  them,  and  the  restless  cat-bird  mewed  at  them  from 
every  thicket.  Had  Wolfert  Webber  been  deeply  read  in 
romantic  legend  he  might  have  fancied  himself  entering  upon 
forbidden,  enchanted  ground ;  or  that  these  were  some  of  the 
guardians  set  to  keep  a  watch  upon  buried  treasure.  As  it 
was,  the  loneliness  of  the  place,  and  the  wild  stories  connected 
with  it,  had  their  effect  upon  his  mind. 

On  reaching  the  lower  end  of  the  lane  they  found  themselves 
near  the  shore  of  the  Sound,  in  a  kind  of  amphitheatre,  sur 
rounded  by  forest  tree.  The  area  had  once  been  a  grass-plot, 
but  was  now  shagged  with  briars  and  rank  weeds.  At  one 
end,  and  just  on  the  river  bank,  was  a  ruined  building,  little 
better  than  a  heap  of  rubbish,  with  a  stack  of  chimneys  rising 
like  a  solitary  tower  out  of  the  centre.  The  current  of  the 


256  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER 

Sound  rushed  along  just  below  it,  with  wildly -grown  trees 
drooping  their  branches  into  its  waves. 

Wolf  ert  had  not  a  doubt  that  this  was  the  haunted  house  of 
father  red-cap,  and  called  to  mind  the  story  of  Peechy  Prauw. 
The  evening  was  approaching,  and  the  light  f ailing  dubiously 
among  these  places,  gave  a  melancholy  tone  to  the  scene,  well 
calculated  to  foster  any  lurking  feeling  of  awe  or  superstition. 
The  night-hawk,  wheeling  about  in  the  highest  regions  of  the 
air,  emitted  his  peevish,  boding  cry.  The  woodpecker  gave  a 
lonely  tap  now  and  then  on  some  hollow  tree,  and  the  fire 
bird,*  as  he  streamed  by  them  with  his  deep-red  plumage, 
seemed  like  some  genius  flitting  about  this  region  of  mystery. 

They  now  came  to  an  enlosure  that  had  once  been  a  garden. 
It  extended  along  the  foot  of  a  rocky  ridge,  but  was  little  bet 
ter  than  a  wilderness  of  weeds,  with  here  and  there  a  matted 
rose-bush,  or  a  peach  or  plum  tree  grown  wild  and  ragged, 
and  covered  with  moss.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  they 
passed  a  kind  of  vault  in  the  side  of  the  bank,  facing  the  water. 
It  had  the  look  of  a  root-house.  The  door,  though  decayed, 
was  still  strong,  and  appeared  to  have  been  recently  patched 
up.  Wolf  ert  pushed  it  open.  It  gave  a  harsh  grating  upon  its 
hinges,  and  striking  against  something  like  a  box,  a  rattling 
sound  ensued,  and  a  skull  rolled  on  the  floor.  Wolfert  drew 
back  shuddering,  but  was  reassured  on  being  informed  by  Sam 
that  this  was  a  family  vault  belonging  to  one  of  the  old  Dutch 
families  that  owned  this  estate;  an  assertion  which  was  cor- 
robrated  by  the  sight  of  coffins  of  various  sizes  piled  within. 
Sam  had  been  familiar  with  all  these  scenes  when  a  boy,  and 
now  knew  that  he  could  not  be  far  from  the  place  of  which 
they  were  in  quest. 

They  now  made  their  way  to  the  water's  edge,  scrambling 
along  ledges  of  rocks,  and  having  often  to  hold  by  shrubs  and 
grape-vines  to  avoid  slipping  into  the  deep  and  hurried  stream. 
At  length  they  came  to  a  small  cove,  or  rather  indent  of  the 
shore.  It  was  protected  by  steep  rocks  and  overshadowed  by 
a  thick  copse  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  so  as  to  be  sheltered  and 
almost  concealed.  The  beach  sloped  gradually  within  the 
cove,  but  the  current  swept  deep  and  black  and  rapid  along  its 
jutting  points  Sam  paused ;  raised  his  remnant  of  a  hat,  and 
scratched  his  grizzled  poll  for  a  moment,  as  he  regarded  this 


'  Orchard  Creole. 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   257 

nook :  then  suddenly  clapping  his  hands,  he  stepped  exultingly 
forward,  and  pointing  to  a  large  iron  ring,  stapled  firmly  in 
the  rock,  just  where  a  broad  shelve  of  stone  furnished  a  com 
modious  landing-place.  It  was  the  very  spot  where  the  red 
caps  had  landed.  Years  had  changed  the  more  perishable 
features  of  the  scene;  but  rock  and  iron  yield  slowly  to  the 
influence  of  time.  On  looking  more  narrowly,  Wolfert  re 
marked  three  crosses  cut  in  the  rock  just  above  the  ring, 
which  had  no  doubt  some  mysterious  signification.  Old  Sam 
now  readily  recognized  the  overhanging  rock  under  which  his 
skiff  had  been  sheltered  during  the  thunder-gust.  To  follow  up 
the  course  which  the  midnight  gang  had  taken,  however,  was 
a  harder  task.  His  mind  had  been  so  much  taken  up  on  that 
eventful  occasion  by  the  persons  of  the  drama,  as  to  pay  but 
little  attention  to  the  scenes;  and  places  looked  different  by 
night  and  day.  After  wandering  about  for  some  time,  how 
ever,  they  came  to  an  opening  among  the  trees  which  Sam 
thought  resembled  the  place.  There  was  a  ledge  of  rock  of 
moderate  height  like  a  wall  on  one  side,  which  Sam  thought 
might  be  the  very  ridge  from  which  he  overlooked  the  diggers. 
Wolfert  examined  it  narrowly,  and  at  length  described  three 
crosses  similar  to  those  above  the  iron  ring,  cut  deeply  into  the 
face  of  the  rock,  but  nearly  obliterated  by  the  moss  that  had 
grown  on  them.  His  heart  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  doubted  not 
but  they  were  the  private  marks  of  the  buccaneers,  to  denote 
the  places  where  their  treasure  lay  buried.  All  now  that 
remained  was  to  ascertain  the  precise  spot;  for  otherwise  he 
might  dig  at  random  without  coming  upon  the  spoil,  and  he 
has  already  had  enough  of  such  profitless  labor.  Here,  how 
ever,  Sam  was  perfectly  at  a  loss,  and,  indeed,  perplexed  him 
by  a  variety  of  opinions;  for  his  recollections  were  all  con 
tused.  Sometimes  he  declared  it  must  have  been  at  the  foot  of 
a  mulberry  tree  hard  by ;  then  it  was  just  beside  a  great  white 
stone;  then  it  must  have  been  under  a  small  green  knoll,  a 
short  distance  from  the  ledge  of  rock :  until  at  length  Wolfert 
became  as  bewildered  as  himself . 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  now  spreading  themselves  over 
the  woods,  and  rock  and  tree  began  to  mingle  together.  It  was 
evidently  too  late  to  attempt  anything  farther  at  present ;  and, 
indeed,  Wolfert  had  come  unprepared  with  implements  to 
prosecute  his  researches.  Satisfied,  therefore,  with  having 
ascertained  the  place,  he  took  note  of  all  its  landmarks,  that 
he  might  recognize  it  again,  and  set  out  on  his  return  home- 


<J58  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

ward,  resolved  to  prosecute  this  golden  enterprise  without 
delay. 

The  leading  anxiety  which  had  hitherto  absorbed  every  feel 
ing  being  now  in  some  measure  appeased,  fancy  began  to  wan 
der,  and  to  conjure  up  a  thousand  shapes  and  chimeras  as  he 
returned  through  this  haunted  region.  Pirates  hanging  in 
chains  seemed  to  swing  on  every  tree,  and  he  almost  expected 
to  see  some  Spanish  Don,  with  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear, 
rising  slowly  out  of  the  ground,  and  shaking  the  ghost  of  a 
money-bag. 

Their  way  back  lay  through  the  desolate  garden,  and  Wol- 
fert's  nerves  had  arrived  at  so  sensitive  a  state  that  the  flitting 
of  a  bird,  the  rustling  of  a  leaf,  or  the  falling  of  a  nut  was 
enough  to  startle  him.  As  they  entered  the  confines  of  the 
garden,  they  caught  sight  of  a  figure  at  a  distance  advancing 
slowly  up  one  of  the  walks  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  a 
burthen.  They  paused  and  regarded  him  attentively.  He  wore 
what  appeared  to  be  a  woollen  cap,  and  still  more  alarming,  of 
a  most  sanguinary  red.  The  figure  moved  slowly  on,  ascended 
the  bank,  and  stopped  at  the  very  door  of  the  sepulchral  vault. 
Just  before  entering  he  looked  around.  What  was  the  horror 
of  Wolfert  when  he  recognized  the  grizzly  visage  of  the 
drowned  buccaneer.  He  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  horror. 
The  figure  slowly  raised  his  iron  fist  and  shook  it  with  a  ter 
rible  manace.  Wolfert  did  not  pause  to  see  more,  but  hurried 
off  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  nor  was  Sam  slow  in 
following  at  his  heels,  having  all  his  ancient  terrors  revived. 
Away,  then,  did  they  scramble,  through  bush  and  brake, 
horribly  frightened  at  every  bramble  that  tagged  at  their 
skirts,  nor  did  they  pause  to  breathe,  until  they  had  blundered 
their  way  through  this  perilous  wood  and  had  fairly  reached 
the  high-road  to  the  city. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  Wolfert  could  summon  courage 
enough  to  prosecute  the  enterprise,  so  much  had  he  been  dis 
mayed  by  the  apparition,  whether  living  dead,  of  the  grizzly 
buccaneer.  In  the  meantime,  what  a  conflict  of  mind  did  he 
suffer !  He  neglected  all  his  concerns,  was  moody  and  restless 
all  day,  lost  his  appetite ;  wandered  in  his  thoughts  and  words, 
and  committed  a  thousand  blunders.  His  rest  was  broken; 
and  when  he  fell  asleep,  the  nightmare,  in  shape  of  a  huge 
money-bag,  sat  squatted  upon  his  breast.  He  babbled  about 
incalculable  sums ;  fancied  himself  engaged  in  money  digging ; 
threw  the  bed-clothes  right  arid  left,  in  the  idea  that  he  was 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   259 

shovelling  among  the  dirt,  groped  under  the  bed  in  quest  of 
the  treasure,  and  lugged  forth,  as  he  supposed,  an  inestimable 
pot  of  gold. 

Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter  were  in  despair  at  what 
they  concieved  a  returning  touch  of  insanity.  There  are  two 
family  oracles,  one  or  other  of  which  Dutch  housewives  con 
sult  in  all  cases  of  great  doubt  and  perplexity :  the  dominie 
and  the  doctor.  In  the  present  instance  they  repaired  to  the 
doctor.  There  was  at  that  time  a  little,  dark,  mouldy  man  of 
medicine  famous  among  the  old  wives  of  the  Manhattoes  for 
his  skill  not  only  in  the  healing  art,  but  in  all  matters  of 
strange  and  mysterious  nature.  His  name  was  Dr.  Knipper- 
hausen,  but  he  was  more  commonly  known  by  the  appellation 
of  the  High  German  doctor.*  To  him  did  the  poor  women 
repair  for  counsel  and  assistance  touching  the  mental  vagaries 
of  Wolfert  Webber. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  his  little  study,  clad  in  his 
dark  camblet  robe  of  knowledge,  with  his  black  velvet  cap, 
after  the  manner  of  Boorhaave,  Van  Helmont,  and  other  medi 
cal  sages :  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  set  in  black  horn  upon  his 
clubbed  nose,  and  poring  over  a  German  folio  that  seemed  to 
reflect  back  "the  darkness  of  his  physiognomy.  The  doctor 
listened  to  their  statement  of  the  symptoms  of  Wolfert's 
malady  with  profound  attention ;  but  when  they  came  to  men 
tion  his  raving  about  buried  money,  the  little  man  pricked  up 
his  ears.  Alas,  poor  women !  they  little  knew  the  aid  they  had 
called  in. 

Dr.  Knipperhausen  had  been  half  his  life  engaged  in  seeking* 
the  short  cuts  to  fortune,  in  quest  of  which  so  many  a  long 
lifetime  is  wasted.  He  had  passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in 
the  Harz  mountains  of  Germany,  and  had  derived  much  valu 
able  instruction  from  the  miners,  touching  the  mode  of  seek 
ing  treasure  buried  in  the  earth.  He  had  prosecuted  his 
studies  also  under  a  travelling  sage  who  united  all  the  mys 
teries  of  medicine  with  magic  and  legerdemain.  Hig  mind, 
therefore,  had  become  stored  with  all  kinds  of  mystic  lore :  he 
had  dabbled  a  little  in  astrology,  alchemy,  and  divination ; 
knew  how  to  detect  stolen  money,  and  to  tell  where  springs  of 
water  lay  hidden;  in  a  word,  by  the  dark  nature  of  his  knowl 
edge  he  had  acquired  the  name  of  the  High  German  doctor, 
which  is  pretty  nearly  equivalent  to  that  of  necromancer.  The, 

*  The  same,  no  doubt,  of  whom  mention  is  made  in  the  history  of  Dolph  Heyliger. 


260  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

doctor  had  often  heard  rumors  of  treasure  being  buried  in 
various  parts  of  the  island,  and  had  long  been  anxious  to  get 
on  the  traces  of  it.  No  sooner  were  Wolfert's  waking  and 
sleeping  vagaries  confided  to  him,  than  he  beheld  in  them  the 
confirmed  symptoms  of  a  case  of  money-digging,  and  lost  no 
time  in  probing  it  to  the  bottom.  Wolfert  had  long  been 
sorely  depressed  in  mind  by  the  golden  secret,  and  as  a  family 
physician  is  a  kind  of  father  confessor,  he  was  glad  of  the 
opportunity  of  unburthening  himself.  So  far  from  curing,  the 
doctor  caught  the  malady  from  his  patient.  The  circum 
stances  unfolded  to  him  awakened  all  his  cupidity ;  he  had  not 
a  doubt  of  money  being  buried  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  mysterious  crosses,  and  offered  to  join  Wolfert  in  the 
search.  He  informed  him  that  much  secrecy  and  caution 
must  be  observed  in  enterprises  of  the  kind;  that  money  is 
only  to  be  digged  for  at  night ;  with  certain  forms  and  cere 
monies  ;  the  burning  of  drugs ;  the  repeating  of  mystic  words, 
and  above  all,  that  the  seekers  must  be  provided  with  a  divin 
ing  rod,  which  had  the  wonderful  property  of  pointing  to  the 
very  spot  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  under  which  treasure  lay 
hidden.  As  the  doctor  had  given  much  of  his  mind  to  these 
matters,  he  charged  himself  with  all  the  necessary  prepara 
tions,  and,  as  the  quarter  of  the  moon  was  propitious,  he 
undertook  to  have  the  divining  rod  ready  by  a  certain  night.* 

*  The  following  note  was  found  appended  to  this  paper  in  the  handwriting  of 
Mr.  Knickerbocker.  "There  has  been  much  written  against  the  divining  rod  by 
those  light  minds  who  are  ever  ready  to  scoff  at  the  mysteries  of  nature,  but  I 
fully  join  with  Dr.  Knipperhausen  in  giving  it  my  faith.  I  shall  not  insist  upon  its 
efficacy  in  discovering  the  concealment  of  stolen  goods,  the  boundary-stones  of 
fields,  the  traces  of  robbers  and  murderers,  or  even  the  existence  of  subterraneous 
springs  and  streams  of  water;  albeit,  I  think  these  properties  not  easily  to  be  dis 
credited;  but  of  its  potency  in  discovering  vein  of  precious  metal,  and  hidden  sums 
of  money  and  jewels,|I  have  not  the  least  doubt.  Some  said  that  the  rod  turned  only 
in  the  hands  of  persons  who  had  been  born  in  particular  months  of  the  year;  hence 
astrologers  had  recourse  to  planetary  influence  when  they  would  procure  a  talis 
man.  Others  declared  that  the  properties  of  the  rod  were  either  an  effect  of 
chance,  or  the  fraud  of  the  holder,  or  the  work  of  the  devil.  Thus  sayeth  the  reve 
rend  Father  Oaspard  Schott  in  his  Treatise  on  Magic.  '  Proyter  haec  et  similia 
argumenta  audacter  ego  pronuncio  vim  conversivam  virgulae  befurcatse  nequa- 
quam  naturalem  esse,  sed  vel  casa  vel  f raude  virgulam  tractantis  vel  ope  diaboli, ' 
etc. 

"  Georgius  Agricula  also  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  a  mere  delusion  of  the  devil  to 
inveigle  the  avaricious  and  unwary  into  his  clutches,  and  in  his  treatise  '  de  re 
Metallica,'  lays  particular  stress  on  the  mysterious  words  pronounced  by  thos< 
persons  who  employed  the  divining  rod  during  his  time.  But  I  make  not  a  doubt 
that  the  divining  rod  is  one  of  those  secrets  of  natural  magic,  the  mystery  of 
which  is  to  be  explained  by  the  sympathies  existing  between  physical  things  oper 
ated  upon  by  the  planets,  and  rendered  efficacious  by  the  strong  faith  of  the  indl 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.  261 

Wolfert's  heart  leaped  with  joy  at  having  met  with  so 
learned  and  able  a  coadjutor.  Every  thing  went  on  secretly, 
but  swimmingly.  The  doctor  had  many  consultations  with 
his  patient,  and  the  good  women  of  the  household  lauded  the 
comforting  effect  of  his  visits.  In  the  meantime,  the  wonder 
ful  divining  rod,  that  great  key  to  nature's  secrets,  was  duly 
prepared.  The  doctor  had  thumbed  over  all  his  books  of 
knowledge  for  the  occasion;  and  Mud  Sam  was  engaged  to  take 
them  in  his  skiff  to  the  scene  of  enterprise ;  to  work  with  spade 
and  pick-axe  in  unearthing  the  treasure;  and  to  freight  his 
bark  with  the  weighty  spoils  they  were  certain  of  finding. 

At  length  the  appointed  night  arrived  for  this  perilous 
undertaking.  Before  Wolfert  left  his  home  he  counselled  his 
wife  and  daughter  to  go  to  bed,  and  feel  no  alarm  if  he  should 
not  return  during  the  night.  Like  reasonable  women,  on 
being  told  not  to  feel  alarm,  they  fell  immediately  into  a  panic. 
They  saw  at  once  by  his  manner  that  something  unusual  was 
in  agitation ;  all  their  fears  about  the  unsettled  state  of  his 
mind  were  roused  with  tenfold  force :  they  hung  about  bim 
entreating  him  not  to  expose  himself  to  the  night  air,  but  all 
in  vain.  When  Wolfert  was  once  mounted  on  his  hobby,  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  get  him  out  of  the  saddle.  It  was  a 
clear  starlight  night,  when  he  issued  out  of  the  portal  of  the 
Webber  palace.  He  wore  a  large  napped  hat  tied  under  the 
chin  with  a  handkerchief  of  his  daughter's,  to  secure  him  from 
the  night  damp,  while  Dame  Webber  threw  her  long  red  cloak 
about  his  shoulders,  and  fastened  it  round  his  neck. 

The  doctor  had  been  no  less  carefully  armed  and  accoutred 
by  his  housekeeper,  the  vigilant  Frau  Ilsy,  and  sallied  forth  in 
his  camblet  robe  by  way  of  surtout ;  his  black  velvet  cap  under 
his  cocked  hat,  a  thick  clasped  book  under  his  arm,  a  basket  of 
drugs  and  dried  herbs  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  the  mirac 
ulous  rod  of  divination. 

The  great  church  clock  struck  ten  as  Wolfert  and  the  doctor 
passed  by  the  church-yard,  and  the  watchman  bawled  in 
hoarse  voice  a  long  and  doleful  "All's  well!"  A  deep  sleep 
had  already  fallen  upon  this  primitive  little  burgh:  nothing 

vidual.  Let  the  divining  rod  be  properly  gathered  at  the  proper  time  of  the  moon, 
cut  into  the  proper  form,  used  with  the  necessary  ceremonies,  and  with  a  perfect 
faith  in  its  efficacy,  and  I  can  confidently  recommend  it  to  my  fellow-citizens  as  an 
infallible  means  of  discovering  the  various  places  on  the  island  of  the  Manhattoes 
where  treasure  hath  been  buried  in  the  olden  time. 

"O.K." 


262  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

disturbed  this  awful  silence,  excepting  now  and  then  the  bark 
of  some  profligate  night- walking  dog,  or  the  serenade  of  some 
romantic  cat.  It  is  true,  Wolfert  fancied  more  than  once 
that  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  stealthy  footfall  at  a  distance 
behind  them ;  but  it  might  have  been  merely  the  echo  of  their 
own  steps  echoing  along  the  quiet  streets.  He  thought  also  at 
one  time  that  he  saw  a  tall  figure  skulking  after  them — stop 
ping  when  they  stopped,  and  moving  on  as  they  proceeded; 
but  the  dim  and  uncertain  lamp  light  threw  such  vague 
gleams  and  shadows,  that  this  might  all  have  been  mere 
fancy. 

They  found  the  negro  fisherman  waiting  for  them,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  stern  of  his  skiff,  which  was  moored  just  in 
front  of  his  little  cabin.  A  pick-axe  and  spade  were  lying  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with  a  dark  lanthorn,  and  a  stone  jug 
of  good  Dutch  courage,  in  which  honest  Sam  no  doubt,  put 
even  more  faith  than  Dr.  Knipperhausen  in  his  drugs. 

Thus  then  did  these  three  worthies  embark  in  their  cockle 
shell  of  a  skiff  upon  this  nocturnal  expedition,  with  a  wisdom 
and  valor  equalled  only  by  the  three  wise  men  of  Gotham,  who 
went  to  sea  in  a  bowl.  The  tide  was  rising  and  running  rap 
idly  up  the  Sound.  The  current  bore  them  along,  almost  with 
out  the  aid  of  an  oar.  The  profile  of  the  town  lay  all  in 
shadow.  Here  and  there  a  light  feebly  glimmered  from  some 
sick  chamber,  or  from  the  cabin  window  of  some  vessel  at 
anchor  in  the  stream.  Not  a  cloud  obscured  the  deep  starry 
firmament,  the  lights  of  which  wavered  on  the  surface  of  the 
placid  river ;  and  a  shooting  meteor,  streaking  its  pale  course 
in  the  very  direction  they  were  taking,  was  interpreted  by  the 
doctor  into  a  most  propitious  omen. 

In  a  little  while  they  glided  by  the  point  of  Corlears  Hook 
with  the  rural  inn  which  had  been  the  scene  of  such  night  ad 
ventures.  The  family  had  retired  to  rest,  and  the  house  was 
dark  and  still.  Wolfert  felt  a  chill  pass  over  him  as  they 
passed  the  point  where  the  buccaneer  had  disappeared.  He 
pointed  it  out  to  Dr.  Knipperhausen.  While  regarding  it,  they 
thought  they  saw  a  boat  actually  lurking  at  the  very  place ; 
but  the  shore  cast  such  a  shadow  over  the  border  of  the  water 
that  they  could  discern  nothing  distinctly.  They  had  not  pro 
ceeded  far  when  they  heard  the  low  sounds  of  distant  oars,  as 
if  cautiously  pulled.  Sam  plied  his  oars  with  redoubled  vigor, 
and  knowing  all  the  eddies  and  currents  of  the  stream,  soon 
left  their  followers,  if  such'  they  were,  far  astern.  In  a  little 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    TEE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   263 

while  they  stretched  across  Turtle  bay  and  Kip's  bay,  then 
shrouded  themselves  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Manhattan 
shore,  and  glided  swiftly  along,  secure  from  observation.  At 
length  Sam  shot  his  skiff  into  a  little  cove,  darkly  embowered 
by  trees,  and  made  it  fast  to  the  well  known  iron  ring.  They 
now  landed,  and  lighting  the  lanthom,  gathered  their  various 
implements  and  proceeded  slowly  through  the  bushes.  Every 
sound  startled  them,  even  that  of  their  footsteps  among  the 
dry  leaves ;  and  the  hooting  of  a  screech  owl,  from  the  shat 
tered  chimney  of  father  red-cap's  ruin,  made  their  blood  run 
cold. 

In  spite  of  all  Wolfert's  caution  in  taking  note  of  the  land 
marks,  it  was  some  time  before  they  could  find  the  open  place 
among  the  trees,  where  the  treasure  was  supposed  to  be  buried. 
At  length  they  came  to  the  ledge  of  rock ;  and  on  examining  its 
surface  by  the  aid  of  the  lanthorn,  Wolfert  recognized  the 
three  mystic  crosses.  Their  hearts  beat  quick,  for  the  moment 
ous  trial  was  at  hand  that  was  to  determine  their  hopes. 

The  lanthorn  was  now  held  by  Wolfert  Webber,  while  the 
doctor  produced  the  divining  rod.  It  was  a  forked  twig,  one 
end  of  which  was  grasped  firmly  in  each  hand,  while  the 
centre,  forming  the  stem,  pointed  perpendicularly  upwards. 
The  doctor  moved  this  wand  about,  within  a  certain  distance 
of  the  earth,  from  place  to  place,  but  for  some  time  without 
any  effect,  while  Wolfert  kept  the  light  of  the  lanthorn  turned 
full  upon  it,  and  watched  it  with  the  most  breathless  interest. 
At  length  the  rod  began  slowly  to  turn.  The  doctor  grasped 
it  with  greater  earnestness,  his  hand  trembling  with  the  agita 
tion  of  his  mind.  The  wand  continued  slowly  to  turn,  until  at 
length  the  stem  had  reversed  its  position,  and  pointed  perpen 
dicularly  downward;  and  remained  pointing  to  one  spot  aa 
fixedly  as  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

"This  is  the  spot!"  said  the  doctor  in  an  almost  inaudible 
tone. 

Wolfert's  heart  was  in  his  throat. 

"  Shall  I  dig?"  said  Sam,  grasping  the  spade. 

" Pots  tousends,  no!"  replied  the  little  doctor,  hastily.  He 
now  ordered  his  companions  to  keep  close  by  him  and  to  main 
tain  the  most  inflexible  silence.  That  certain  precautions  must 
be  taken,  and  ceremonies  used  to  prevent  the  evil  spirits  which 
keep  about  buried  treasure  from  doing  them  any  harm.  The 
doctor  then  drew  a  circle  round  the  place,  enough  to  include 
the  whole  pai  ty.  He  next  gathered  dry  twigs  and  leaves,  and 


264  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

made  a  fire,  upon  which  he  threw  certain  drugs  and  dried 
herbs  which  he  had  brought  in  his  basket.  A  thick  smoke 
rose,  diffusing  a  potent  odor,  savoring  marvellously  of  brim 
stone  and  assafoetida,  which,  however  grateful  it  might  be  to 
the  olfactory  nerves  of  spirits,  nearly  strangled  poor  Wolfert, 
and  produced  a  fit  of  coughing  and  wheezing  that  made  the 
whole  grove  resound.  Doctor  Knipperhausen  then  unclasped 
the  volume  which  he  had  brought  under  his  arm,  which  was 
printed  in  red  and  black  characters  in  German  text.  While 
Wolfert  held  the  lanthorn,  the  doctor,  by  the  aid  of  his  spec 
tacles,  read  off  several  forms  of  conjuration  in  Latin  and  Ger 
man.  He  then  ordered  Sam  to  seize  the  pick-axe  and  proceed 
to  work.  The  close-bound  soil  gave  obstinate  signs  of  not  hav 
ing  been  disturbed  for  many  a  year.  After  having  picked  his 
way  through  the  surface,  Sam  came  to  a  bed  of  sand  and 
gravel,  which  he  threw  briskly  to  right  and  left  with  the  spade. 

"Hark!"  said  Wolfert,  who  fancied  he  heard  a  trampling 
among  the  dry  leaves,  and  a  rustling  through  the  bushes.  Sam 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  they  listened.  No  footstep  was 
near.  The  bat  flitted  about  them  in  silence;  a  bird  roused 
from  its  nest  by  the  light  which  glared  up  among  the  trees, 
flew  circling  about  the  flame.  In  the  profound  stillness  of  the 
woodland  they  could  distinguish  the  current  rippling  along  the 
rocky  shore,  and  the  distant  murmuring  and  roaring  of  Hell 
Gate. 

Sam  continued  his  labors,  and  had  already  digged  a  consider 
able  hole.  The  doctor  stood  on  the  edge,  reading  formulae 
every  now  and  then  from  the  black  letter  volume,  or  throwing 
more  drugs  and  herbs  upon  the  fire ;  while  Wolfert  bent  anxi 
ously  over  the  pit,  watching  every  stroke  of  the  spade.  Any 
one  witnessing  the  scene  thus  strangely  lighted  up  by  fire, 
lanthorn,  and  the  reflection  of  Wolfert's  red  mantle,  might 
have  mistaken  the  little  doctor  for  some  foul  magician,  busied 
in  his  incantations,  and  the  grizzled-headed  Sam  as  some  swart 
goblin,  obedient  to  his  commands. 

At  length  the  spade  of  the  fisherman  struck  upon  something 
that  sounded  hollow.  The  sound  vibrated  to  Wolfert's  heart. 
He  struck  his  spade  again. 

"  'Tis  a  chest."  said  Sam. 

"Full  of  gold,  I'll  warrant  it!"  cried  Wolfert,  clasping  his 
hands  with  rapture. 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  the  words  when  a  sound  from  over 
head  caught  his  ear.  He  aist  up  his  eyes,  and  lo!  by  the 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   265 

expiring  light  of  the  fire  he  beheld,  just  over  the  disk  of  the 
rock,  what  appeared  to  be  the  grim  visage  of  the  drowned 
buccaneer,  grinning  hideously  down  upon  him. 

Wolfert  gave  a  loud  cry  and  let  fall  the  lanthorn.  His  panic 
communicated  itself  to  his  companions.  The  negro  leaped  out 
of  the  hole,  the  doctor  dropped  his  book  and  basket  and  began 
to  pray  in  German.  All  was  horror  and  confusion.  The  fire 
was  scattered  about,  the  lanthorn  extinguished.  In  their  hur- 
ry-skurry  they  ran  against  and  confounded  one  another.  They 
fancied  a  legion  of  hobgoblins  let  loose  upon  them,  and  that 
they  saw  by  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  scattered  embers,  strange 
figures  in  red  caps  gibbering  and  ramping  around  them.  The 
doctor  ran  one  way,  Mud  Sam  another,  and  Wolfert  made  for 
the  water  side.  As  he  plunged  struggling  onwards  through 
bush  and  brake,  he  heard  the  tread  of  some  one  in  pursuit. 
He  scrambled  frantically  forward.  The  footsteps  gained  upon 
him.  He  felt  himself  grasped  by  his  cloak,  when  suddenly  his 
pursuer  was  attacked  in  turn:  a  fierce  fight  and  struggle 
ensued — a  pistol  was  discharged  that  lit  up  rock  and  bush  for  a 
period,  and  showed  two  figures  grappling  together — all  was 
then  darker  than  ever.  The  contest  continued — the  com 
batants  clenched  each  other,  and  panted  and  groaned,  and 
rolled  among  the  rocks.  There  was  snarling  and  growling  as 
of  a  eur,  mingled  with  curses  in  which  Wolfert  fancied  he 
could  recognize  the  voice  of  the  buccaneer.  He  would  fain 
have  fled,  but  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  and  could  go 
no  farther. 

Again  the  parties  were  on  their  feet ;  again  there  was  a  tug 
ging  and  struggling,  as  if  strength  alone  could  decide  the  com 
bat,  until  one  was  precipitated  from  the  brow  of  the  cliff  and 
sent  headlong  into  the  deep  stream  that  whirled  below.  Wol 
fert  heard  the  plunge,  and  a  kind  of  strangling  bubbling 
murmur,  but  the  darkness  of  the  night  hid  every  thing  from 
view,  and  the  swiftness  of  the  current  swept  every  thing 
instantly  out  of  hearing.  One  of  the  combatants  was  disposed 
of,  but  whether  friend  or  foe  Wolfert  could  not  tell,  nor 
whether  they  might  not  both  be  foes.  He  heard  the  survivor 
approach  and  his  terror  revived.  He  saw,  where  the  profile  of 
the  rocks  rose  against  the  horizon,  a  human  form  advancing. 
He  could  not  be  mistaken :  it  must  be  the  buccaneer.  Whither 
should  he  fly !  a  precipice  was  on  one  side ;  a  murderer  on  the 
other.  The  enemy  approached :  he  was  close  at  hand.  Wol 
fert  attempted  to  let  himself  down  the  face  of  the  cliff.  His 


206  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

cloak  caught  in  a  thorn  that  grew  on  the  edge.  He  was  jerked 
from  off  his  feet  and  held  dangling  in  the  air,  half  choaked  by 
the  string  with  which  his  careful  wife  had  fastened  the  gar 
ment  round  his  neck.  Wolfert  thought  his  last  moment  had 
arrived;  already  had  he  committed  his  soul  to  St.  Nicholas, 
when  the  string  broke  and  he  tumbled  down  the  bank,  bump 
ing  from  rock  to  rock  and  bush  to  bush,  and  leaving  the  red 
cloak  fluttering  like  a  bloody  banner  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Wolfert  came  to  himself.  When 
he  opened  his  eyes  the  ruddy  streaks  of  the  morning  were 
already  shooting  up  the  sky.  He  found  himself  lying  in  the 
bottom  of  a  boat,  grievously  battered.  He  attempted  to  sit  up 
but  was  too  sore  and  stiff  to  move.  A  voice  requested  him  in 
friendly  accents  to  lie  still.  He  turned  his  eyes  toward  the 
speaker :  it  was  Dirk  Waldron.  He  had  dogged  the  party,  at 
the  earnest  request  of  Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter,  who, 
with  the  laudable  curiosity  of  their  sex,  had  pried  into  the 
secret  consultations  of  Wolfert  and  the  doctor.  Dirk  had  been 
completely  distanced  in  following  the  light  skiff  of  the  fisher 
man,  and  had  just  come  in  time  to  rescue  the  poor  money- 
digger  from  his  pursuer. 

Thus  ended  this  perilous  enterprise.  The  doctor  and  Mud 
Sam  severally  found  their  way  back  to  the  Manhattoes,  each 
having  some  dreadful  tale  of  peril  to  relate.  As  to  poor  Wol 
fert,  instead  of  returning  in  triumph,  laden  with  bags  of  gold, 
he  was  borne  home  on  a  shutter,  followed  by  a  rabble  route  of 
curious  urchins.  His  wife  and  daughter  saw  the  dismal  pageant 
from  a  distance,  and  alarmed  the  neighborhood  with  their  cries : 
they  thought  the  poor  man  had  suddenly  settled  the  great  debt 
of  nature  in  one  of  his  wayward  moods.  Finding  him,  how 
ever,  still  living,  they  had  him  conveyed  speedily  to  bed,  and 
a  jury  of  old  matrons  of  the  neighborhood  assembled  to  deter 
mine  how  he  should  be  doctored.  The  whole  town  was  in  a 
buzz  with  the  story  of  the  money-diggers.  Many  repaired  to 
the  scene  of  the  previous  night's  adventures :  but  though  they 
found  the  very  place  of  the  digging,  they  discovered  nothing 
that  compensated  for  their  trouble.  Some  say  they  found  the 
fragments  of  an  oaken  chest  and  an  iron  pot-lid,  which  savored 
strongly  of  hidden  money ;  and  that  in  the  old  family  vault 
there  were  traces  of  bales  and  boxes,  but  this  is  all  very 
dubious. 

In  fact,  the  secret  of  all  this  story  has  never  to  this  day  been 
discovered :  whether  any  treasure  was  ever  actually  buried  at 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.  267 

that  place ;  whether,  if  so,  it  was  carried  off  at  night  by  those 
who  had  buried  it ;  or  whether  it  still  remains  there  under  the 
guardianship  of  gnomes  and  spirits  until  it  shall  be  properly 
sought  for,  is  all  matter  of  conjecture.  For  my  part  I  incline 
to  the  latter  opinion ;  and  make  no  doubt  that  great  sums  lie 
buried,  both  there  and  in  many  other  parts  of  this  island  and 
its  neighborhood,  ever  since  the  times  of  the  buccaneers  and  the 
Dutch  colonists ;  and  I  would  earnestly  recommend  the  search^ 
after  them  to  such  of  my  fellow  citizens  as  are  not  engaged  in 
any  other  speculations. 

There  were  many  conjectures  formed,  also,  as  to  who  and 
what  was  the  strange  man  of  the  seas  who  had  domineered 
over  the  little  fraternity  at  Corlears  Hook  for  a  time ;  disap 
peared  so  strangely,  and  reappeared  so  fearfully.  Some  sup 
posed  him  a  smuggler  stationed  at  that  place  to  assist  his 
comrades  in  landing  their  goods  among  the  rocky  coves  of  the 
island.  Others  that  he  was  a  buccaneer ;  one  of  the  ancient 
comrades  either  of  Kidd  or  Bradish,  returned  to  convey  away 
treasures  formerly  hidden  in  the  vicinity.  The  only  circum 
stance  that  throws  any  thing  like  a  vague  light  over  this 
mysterious  matter  is  a  report  that  prevailed  of  a  strange  for 
eign-built  shallop,  with  the  look  of  a  piccaroon,  having  been 
seen  hovering  about  the  Sound  for  several  days  without  land 
ing  or  reporting  herself,  though  boats  were  seen  going  to  and 
from  her  at  night :  and  that  she  was  seen  standing  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  harbor,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn  after  the  catas 
trophe  of  the  money-diggers. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  another  report,  also,  which  I 
confess  is  rather  apocryphal,  of  the  buccaneer,  who  was  sup 
posed  to  have  been  drowned,  being  seen  before  daybreak,  with 
a  lanthorn  in  his  hand,  seated  astride  his  great  sea-chest  and 
sailing  through  Hell  Gate,  which  just  then  began  .to  roar  and 
bellow  with  redoubled  fury. 

While  all  the  gossip  world  was  thus  filled  with  talk  and 
rumor,  poor  Wolf ert  lay  sick  and  sorrowful  in  his  bed,  bruised 
in  body  and  sorely  beaten  down  in  mind.  His  wife  and  daugh 
ter  did  all  they  could  to  bind  up  his  wounds  both  corporal  and 
spiritual.  The  good  old  dame  never  stirred  from  his  bedside, 
where  she  sat  knitting  from  morning  till  night;  while  his 
daughter  busied  herself  about  him  with  the  fondest  care.  Nor 
did  they  lack  assistance  from  abroad.  Whatever  may  be  said 
of  the  desertions  of  friends  in  distress,  they  had  no  complaint 
of  the  kind  to  make.  Not  an  old  wife  of  the  neighborhood  but 


268  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

abandoned  her  work  to  crowd  to  the  mansion  of  Wolfert 
Webber,  inquire  after  his  health  and  the  particulars  of  his 
story.  Not  one  came,  moreover,  without  her  little  pipkin  of 
pennyroyal,  sage,  balm,  or  other  herb-tea,  delighted  at  an 
opportunity  of  signalizing  her  kindness  and  her  doctorship. 
What  drenchings  did  not  the  poor  Wolfert  undergo,  and  all  in 
vain.  It  was  a  moving  sight  to  behold  him  wasting  away  day 
by  day ;  growing  thinner  and  thinner  and  ghastlier  and  ghast 
lier,  and  staring  with  rueful  visage  from  under  an  old  patch 
work  counterpane  upon  the  jury  of  matrons  kindly  assembled 
to  sigh  and  groan  and  look  unhappy  around  him. 

Dirk  Waldron  was  the  only  being  that  seemed  to  shed  a  ray 
of  sunshine  into  this  house  of  mourning.  He  came  in  with 
cheery  look  and  manly  spirit,  and  tried  to  reanimate  the 
expiring  heart  of  the  poor  money-digger,  but  it  was  all  in  vain. 
Wolfert  was  completely  done  over.  If  any  thing  was  wanting 
to  complete  his  despair,  it  was  a  notice  served  upon  him  in  the 
midst  of  his  distress,  that  the  corporation  were  about  to  run  a 
new  street  through  the  very  centre  of  his  cabbage  garden.  He 
saw  nothing  before  him  but  poverty  and  ruin ;  his  last  reliance, 
the  garden  of  his  forefathers,  was  to  be  laid  waste,  and  what 
then  was  to  become  of  his  poor  wife  and  child  ? 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  they  followed  the  dutiful  Amy 
out  of  the  room  one  morning.  Dirk  Waldron  was  seated  beside 
him ;  Wolfert  grasped  his  hand,  pointed  after  his  daughter,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  his  illness  broke  the  silence  he  had  main 
tained. 

' '  I  am  going  1"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  feebly,  ' '  and  when  I 
am  gone — my  poor  daughter — " 

"Leave  her  to  me,  father  1"  said  Dirk,  manfully — "I'll  take 
care  of  her !" 

Wolfert  looked  up  in  the  face  of  the  cheery,  strapping 
youngster,  and  saw  there  was  none  better  able  to  take  care  of  a 
woman. 

"Enough,"  said  he,  "she  is  yours ! — and  now  fetch  me  a  law 
yer — let  me  make  my  will  and  die." 

The  lawyer  was  brought — a  dapper,  bustling,  round-headed 
little  man,  Roorback  (or  Rollebuck,  as  it  was  pronounced)  by 
name.  At  the  sight  of  him  the  women  broke  into  loud  lamen 
tations,  for  they  looked  upon  the  signing  of  a  will  as  the  signing 
of  a  death-warrant.  Wolfert  made  a  feeble  motion  for  them  to 
be  silent.  Poor  Amy  buried  her  face  and  her  grief  in  the  bed- 
curtain.  Dame  Webber  resumed  her  knitting  to  hide  her  dis 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   269 

tress,  which  betrayed  itself,  however,  in  a  pellucid  tear,  that 
trickled  silently  down  and  hung  at  the  end  of  her  peaked  nose ; 
while  the  cat,  the  only  unconcerned  member  of  the  family, 
played  with  the  good  dame's  ball  of  worsted,  as  it  rolled  about 
the  floor. 

Wolfert  lay  on  his  back,  his  nightcap  drawn  over  his  fore 
head  ;  his  eyes  closed ;  his  whole  visage  the  picture  of  death. 
He  begged  the  lawyer  to  be  brief,  for  he  felt  his  end  approach 
ing,  and  that  he  had  no  time  to  lose.  The  lawyer  nibbed  his 
pen,  spread  out  his  paper,  and  prepared  to  write. 

"I  give  and  bequeath,"  said  Wolfert,  faintly,  "my  small 
farm—" 

"What — all!"  exclaimed  the  lawayer. 

Wolfert  half  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  upon  the  lawyer. 

"  Yes— all "  said  he. 

"  What!  all  that  great  patch  of  land  with  cabbages  and  sun 
flowers,  which  the  corporation  is  just  going  to  run  a  main  street 
through?" 

"The  same,"  said  Wolfert,  with  a  heavy  sigh  and  sinking 
back  upon  his  pillow. 

"I  wish  him  joy  that  inherits  it!"  said  the  little  lawyer, 
chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands  involuntarily. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  said  Wolfert,  again  opening  his  eyes. 

"That  he'll  be  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  place !"  cried  little 
Rollebuck. 

The  expiring  Wolfert  seemed  to  step  back  from  the  threshold 
of  existence :  his  eyes  again  lighted  up ;  he  raised  himself  in  his 
bed,  shoved  back  his  red  worsted  nightcap,  and  stared  broadly 
at  the  lawyer. 

"You  don't  say  so !"  exclaimed  he. 

"Faith,  but  I  do!"  rejoined  the  other.  "Why,  when  that 
great  field  and  that  piece  of  meadow  come  to  be  laid  out  in 
streets,  and  cut  up  into  snug  building  lots — why,  whoever  owns 
them  need  not  pull  off  his  hat  to  the  patroon !" 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  Wolfert,  half  thrusting  one  leg  out  of 
bed,  "why,  then  I  think  I'll  not  make  my  will  yet!" 

To  the  surprise  of  everybody  the  dying  man  actually  re 
covered.  The  vital  spark  which  had  glimmered  faintly  in  the 
socket,  received  fresh  fuel  from  the  oil  of  gladness,  which  the 
little  lawyer  poured  into  his  soul.  It  once  more  burnt  up  imV 
a  flame. 

Give  physic  to  the  heart,  ye  who  would  revive  the  body  of  a 
spirit-broken  man !  In  a  few  days  Wolfert  left  his  room ;  in  a 
few  days  more  his  table  wajj  CUV  wed  with  deeds,  plans  of  streets 


270  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

and  building  lots.  Little  Rollebuck  was  constantly  with  him, 
his  right-hand  man  and  adviser,  and  instead  of  making  his 
will,  assisted  in  the  more  agreeable  task  of  making  his  fortune. 
In  fact,  Wolfert  Webber  was  one  of  those  worthy  Dutch  bur 
ghers  of  the  Manhattoes  whose  fortunes  have  been  made,  in  a 
manner,  in  spite  of  themselves ;  who  have  tenaciously  held  on 
to  their  hereditary  acres,  raising  turnips  and  cabbages  about 
the  skirts  of  the  city,  hardly  able  to  make  both  ends  meets, 
until  the  corporation  has  cruelly  driven  streets  through  their 
abodes,  and  they  have  suddenly  awakened  out  of  a  lethargy, 
and,  to  their  astonishment,  found  themselves  rich  men. 

Before  many  months  had  elapsed  a  great  bustling  street 
passed  through  the  very  centre  of  the  Webber  garden,  just 
where  Wolfert  had  dreamed  of  finding  a  treasure.  His  golden 
dream  was  accomplished ;  he  did  indeed  find  an  unlooked-for 
source  of  wealth ;  for,  when  his  paternal  lands  were  distributed 
into  building  lots,  and  rented  out  to  safe  tenants,  instead  of 
producing  a  paltry  crop  of  cabbages,  they  returned  him  an 
abundant  crop  of  rents ;  insomuch  that  on  quarter  day,  it  was 
a  goodly  sight  to  see  his  tenants  rapping  at  his  door,  from 
morning  to  night,  each  with  a  little  round-bellied  bag  of  money, 
the  golden  produce  of  the  soil. 

The  ancient  mansion  of  his  forefathers  was  still  kept  up,  but 
instead  of  being  a  little  yellow-fronted  Dutch  house  in  a  gar 
den,  it  now  stood  boldly  in  the  midst  of  a  street,  the  grand 
house  of  the  neighborhood ;  for  Wolfert  enlarged  it  with  a  wing 
on  each  side,  and  a  cupola  or  tea  room  on  top,  where  he  might 
climb  up  and  smoke  his  pipe  in  hot  weather ;  and  in  the  course 
of  time  the  whole  mansion  was  overrun  by  the  chubby-faced 
progeny  of  Amy  Webber  and  Dirk  Waldron. 

As  Wolfert  waxed  old  and  rich  and  corpulent,  he  also  set  up 
a  great  gingerbread-colored  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  black 
Flanders  mares  with  tails  that  swept  the  ground ;  and  to  com 
memorate  the  origin  of  his  greatness  he  had  for  a  crest  a  full' 
blown  cabbage  painted  on  the  pannels,  with  the  pithy  motto 
&IIt*  IBopf:  that  is  to  say,  ALL  HEAD  ;  meaning  thereby  that  he 
had  risen  by  sheer  head-work. 

To  fill  the  measure  of  his  greatness,  in  the  fullness  of  time 
the  renowned  Eamm  Eapelye  slept  with  his  fathers,  and  Wol 
fert  Webber  succeeded  to  the  leathern-bottomed  arm-chair  in 
the  inn  parlor  at  Corlears  Hook ;  where  he  long  reigned  greatly 
honored  and  respected,  insomuch  that  he  was  never  known  to 
tell  a  story  without  its  being  believed,  nor  to  utter  a  joke  with 
out  its  being  laughed  at. '  • 


ABBOTSFORD  AND  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


MM 

ABBOTSFORD 6 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 65 

ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY 68 

ABBEY  GARDEN 66 

PLOUGH  MONDAY 71 

OLD  SERVANTS 73 

SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY  77 

ANNESLEY  HALL 83 

THE  LAKE 98 

ROBIN  HOOD  AND  SHERWOOD  FOREST 100 

ROOK  CELL :..  105 

.LITTLE  WHITE  LADT ., 110 


ABBOTSFORD. 


I  SIT  down  to  perform  my  promise  of  giving  you  an  account  of 
a  visit  made  many  years  since  to  Abbotsf  ord.  I  hope,  however, 
that  you  do  not  expect  much  from  me,  for  the  travelling  notes 
taken  at  the  time  are  so  scanty  and  vague,  and  my  memory  so 
extremely  fallacious,  that  I  fear  I  shall  disappoint  you  with 
the  meagreness  and  crudeness  of  my  details. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  August  29,  1817,  I  arrived  at  the  an 
cient  little  border  town  of  Selkirk,  where  I  put  up  for  the 
night.  I  had  come  down  from  Edinburgh,  partly  to  visit 
Melrose  Abbey  and  its  vicinity,  but  chiefly  to  get  sight  of  the 
' '  mighty  minstrel  of  the  north. "  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  him  from  Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet,  and  had  reason  to 
think,  from  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  some  of  my  earlier 
scribblings,  that  a  visit  from  me  would  not  be  deemed  an  in 
trusion. 

On  the  following  morning,  after  an  early  breakfast,  I  set  oft 
in  a  postchaise  for  the  Abbey.  On  the  way  thither  I  stopped 
at  the  gate  of  Abbotsford,  and  sent  the  postilion  to  the  house 
with  the  letter  of  introduction  and  my  card,  on  which  I  had 
written  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey, 
and  wished  to  know  whether  it  would  be  agreeable  to  Mr. 
Scott  (he  had  not  yet  been  made  a  Baronet)  to  receive  a  visit, 
from  me  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

While  the  postilion  was  on  his  errand,  I  had  time  to  survey 
the  mansion.  It  stood  some  short  distance  below  the  road,  on 
the  side  of  a  hill  sweeping  down  to  the  Tweed ;  and  was  as  yet 
but  a  snug  gentleman's  cottage,  with  something  rural  and  pic 
turesque  in  its  appearance.  The  whole  front  was  overrun  with 
evergreens,  and  immediately  above  the  portal  was  a  great  pair 
of  elk  horns,  branching  out  from  beneath  the  foliage,  and  giv 
ing  the  cottage  the  look  of  a  hunting  lodge.  The  huge  baronial 
I  iie  to  which  this  modest  mansion  in  a  manner  gave  birth, 


6  ABBOTSFORD. 

was  just  emerging  into  existence;  part  of  the  walls,  sur 
rounded  by  scaffolding,  already  had  risen  to  the  height  of  the 
cottage,  and  the  courtyard  in  front  was  encumbered  by  masses 
of  hewn  stone. 

The  noise  of  the  chaise  had  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  estab 
lishment.  Out  sallied  the  warder  of  the  castle,  a  black  grey 
hound,  and,  leaping  on  one  of  the  blocks  of  stone,  began  a 
furious  barking.  His  alarum  brought  out  the  whole  garrison 
of  dogs: 

"  Both  monprel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree;" 

all  open-mouthed  and  vociferous. — I  should  correct  my  quota 
tion  ; — not  a  cur  was  to  be  seen  on  the  premises :  Scott  was 
too  true  a  sportsman,  and  had  too  high  a  veneration  for  pure 
blood,  to  tolerate  a  mongrel. 

In  a  little  while  the  "lord  of  the  castle"  himself  made  his 
appearance.  I  knew  him  at  once  by  the  descriptions  I  had 
read  and  heard,  and  the  likenesses  that  had  been  published  of 
him.  He  was  tall,  and  of  a  large  and  powerful  frame.  His 
dress  was  simple,  and  almost  rustic.  An  old  green  shooting- 
coat,  with  a  dog-whistle  at  the  buttonhole,  brown  linen  panta 
loons,  stout  shoes  that  tied  at  the  ankles,  and  a  white  hat  that 
had  evidently  seen  service.  He  came  limping  up  the  gravel 
walk,  aiding  himself  by  a  stout  walking-staff,  but  moving 
rapidly  and  with  vigor.  By  his  side  jogged  along  a  large  iron- 
gray  stag-hound  of  most  grave  demeanor,  who  took  no  part  in 
the  clamor  of  the  canine  rabble,  but  seemed  to  consider  himself 
bound,  for  the  dignity  of  the  house,  to  give  me  a  courteous  re 
ception. 

Before  Scott  had  reached  the  gate  he  called  out  in  a  hearty 
tone,  welcoming  me  to  Abbotsford,  and  asking  news  of  Camp 
bell.  Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  chaise,  he  grasped  me  warmly 
by  the  hand:  "  Come,  drive  down,  drive  down  to  the  house," 
said  he,  "ye're  just  in  time  for  breakfast,  and  afterward  ye 
shall  see  all  the  wonders  of  the  Abbey." 

I  would  have  excused  myself,  on  the  plea  of  having  already 
made  my  breakfast.  "Hout,  man,"  cried  he,  "a  ride  in  the 
morning  in  the  keen  air  of  the  Scotch  hills  is  warrant  enough 
for  a  second  breakfast." 

I  was  accordingly  whirled  to  the  portal  of  the  cottage,  and  in 
a  few  moments  found  myself  seated  at  the  breakfast-table. 
There  was  no  one  present  but  the  family,  which  consisted  of 
Mrs.  Scott,  her  eldest  daughter  Sophia,  then  a  fine  girl  about 


ABBOTSFORD.  7 

seventeen,  Miss  Ann  Scott,  two  or  three  years  younger,  Walter, 
a  well-grown  stripling,  and  Charles,  a  lively  boy,  eleven  or 
twelve  years  of  age.  I  soon  felt  myself  quite  at  home,  and  my 
heart  in  a  glow  with  the  cordial  welcome  I  experienced.  I  had 
thought  to  make  a  mere  morning  visit,  but  found  I  was  not  to 
be  let  off  so  lightly.  ' '  You  must  not  think  our  neighborhood 
is  to  be  read  in  a  morning,  like  a  newspaper,"  said  Scott.  "It 
takes  several  days  of  study  for  an  observant  traveller  that  has 
a  relish  for  auld  world  trumpery.  After  breakfast  you  shall 
make  your  visit  to  Melrose  Abbey ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  ac 
company  you,  as  I  have  some  household  affairs  to  attend  to, 
but  I  will  put  you  in  charge  of  my  son  Charles,  who  is  very 
learned  in  all  things  touching  the  old  ruin  and  the  neighbor 
hood  it  stands  in,  and  he  and  my  friend  Johnny  Bower  will  tell 
you  the  whole  truth  about  it,  with  a  good  deal  more  that  you 
are  not  called  upon  to  believe — unless  you  be  a  true  and  noth 
ing-doubting  antiquary.  When  you  come  back,  I'll  take  you 
out  on  a  ramble  about  the  neighborhood.  To-morrow  we  will 
take  a  look  at  the  Yarrow,  and  the  next  day  we  will  drive  over 
to  Dryburgh  Abbey,  which  is  a  fine  old  ruin  well  worth  your 
seeing" — in  a  word,  before  Scott  had  got  through  his  plan,  I 
found  myself,  committed  for  a  visit  of  several  days,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  little  realm  of  romance  was  suddenly  opened  be 
fore  me. 


After  breakfast  I  accordingly  set  off  for  the  Abbey  with  my 
little  friend  Charles,  whom  I  found  a  most  sprightly  and  enter 
taining  companion.  He  had  an  ample  stock  of  anecdote  about 
the  neighborhood,  which  he  had  learned  from  his  father,  and 
many  quaint  remarks  and  sly  jokes,  evidently  derived  from 
the  same  source,  all  which  were  uttered  with  a  Scottish  ac- 
eent  and  a  mixture  of  Scottish  phraseology,  that  gave  them 
additional  flavor. 

On  our  way  to  the  Abbey  he  gave  me  some  anecdotes  of 
Johnny  Bower  to  whom  his  father  had  alluded ;  he  was  sexton 
of  the  parish  and  custodian  of  the  ruin,  employed  to  keep  it  in 
order  and  show  it  to  strangers ;— a  worthy  little  man,  not  with 
out  ambition  in  his  humble  sphere.  The  death  of  his  predeces 
sor  had  been  mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  so  that  his  name 
had  appeared  in  print  throughout  the  land.  When  Johnny 
succeeded  to  the  guardianship  of  the  ruin,  he  stipulated  that,  on 
his  death,  his  name  should  receive  like  honorable  blazon ;  with 


8  ABBOTSFORD. 

this  addition,  that  it  should  be  from  the  pen  of  Scott.  The 
latter  gravely  pledged  himself  to  pay  this  tribute  to  his  memory, 
and  Johnny  now  lived  in  the  proud  anticipation  of  a  poetic 
immortality. 

I  found  Johnny  Bower  a  decent-looking  little  old  man,  in 
blue  coat  and  red  waistcoat.  He  received  us  with  much  greet 
ing,  and  seemed  delighted  to  see  my  young  companion,  who 
was  full  of  merriment  and  waggery,  drawing  out  his  peculiari 
ties  for  my  amusement.  The  old  man  was  one  of  the  most 
authentic  and  particular  of  cicerones;  he  pointed  out  every 
thing  in  the  Abbey  that  had  been  described  by  Scott  in  his 
"Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel:"  and  would  repeat,  with  broad 
Scottish  accent,  the  passage  which  celebrated  it. 

Thus,  in  passing  through  the  cloisters,  he  made  me  remark  the 
beautiful  carvings  of  leaves  and  flowers  wrought  in  stone  with 
the  most  exquisite  delicacy,  and,  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of 
centuries,  retaining  their  sharpness  as  if  fresh  from  the  chisel ; 
rivalling,  as  Scott  has  said,  the  real  objects  of  which  they  were 
imitations : 

"  Nor  herb  nor  flowret  glistened  there 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister  arches  as  fair." 

He  pointed  out,  also,  among  the  carved  work  a  nun's  head  of 
much  beauty,  which  he  said  Scott  always  stopped  to  admire — 
"  for  the  shirra  had  a  wonderful  eye  for  all  sic  matters." 

I  would  observe  that  Scott  seemed  to  derive  more  consequence 
in  the  neighborhood  from  being  sheriff  of  the  county  than  from 
being  poet. 

In  the  interior  of  the  Abbey  Johnny  Bower  conducted  me  to 
the  identical  stone  on  which  Stout  William  of  Deloraine  and 
the  monk  took  their  seat  on  that  memorable  night  when  the 
wizard's  book  was  to  be  rescued  from  the  grave.  Nay,  Johnny 
had  even  gone  beyond  Scott  in  the  minuteness  of  his  antiquarian 
research,  for  he  had  discovered  the  very  tomb  of  the  wizard, 
the  position  of  which  had  been  left  in  doubt  by  the  poet.  This 
he  boasted  to  have  ascertained  by  the  position  of  the  oriel  win 
dow,  and  the  direction  in  which  the  moonbeams  fell  at  night, 
through  the  stained  glass,  casting  the  shadow  to  the  red  cross 
on  the  spot;  as  had  all  been  specified  in  the  poem.  "I  pointed 
out  the  whole  to  the  shirra,"  said  he,  "and  he  could  na'  gain 
say  but  it  was  varra  clear."  I  found  afterward  that  Scott  used 
to  amuse  himself  with  the  simplicity  of  the  old  man,  and  his 
zeal  in  verifying  every  passage  of  the  poem,  as  though  it  had 


ABBOTSFORD.  9 

been  authentic  history,  and  that  he  always  acquiesced  in  his 
deductions.  I  subjoin  the  description  of  the  wizard's  grave 
which  called  forth  the  antiquarian  research  of  Johnny  Bower. 

Lo  warrior !  now  the  cross  of  red, 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead; 

Slow  moved  the  monk  to  the  broad  flag-stone, 

Which  the  bloody  cross  was  traced  upon: 

He  pointed  to  a  sacred  nook: 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took ; 

And  the  monk  made  a  sign  with  his  withered  hand, 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 

"  It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength, 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 
I  would  you  had  been  there  to  see, 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 
Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof! 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  monk's  cowl  and  visage  pale, 
Danced  on  the  dark  brown  warrior's  mail, 
And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 

"  Before  their  eyes  the  wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day: 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old; 
A  palmer's  amice  wrapped  him  round; 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 

Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea; 
His  left  hand  held  his  book  of  might; 
A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right: 

The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee." 

The  fictions  of  Scott  had  hecome  facts  with  honest  Johnny 
Bower.  From  constantly  living  among  the  ruins  of  Melrose 
Abbey,  and  pointing  out  the  scenes  of  the  poem,  the  •"  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel "  had,  in  a  manner,  become  interwoven  with 
his  whole  existence,  and  I  doubt  whether  he  did  not  now  and 
then  mix  up  his  own  identity  with  the  personages  of  some  of 
its  cantos. 

He  could  not  bear  that  any  other  production  of  the  poet 
should  be  preferred  to  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.'1 
"  Faith,"  said  he  to  me,  "  it's  just  e'en  as  gude  a  thing  as  Mr. 
Scott  has  written — an'  if  he  were  stannin'  there  I'd  tell  him  so 
—an'  then  he'd  lauff." 

He  was  loud  in  his  praises  of  the  affability  of  Scott.  "  He'll 
eome  here  sometimes,"  said  he,  "with  great  folks  in  his  com 
pany,  an'  the  first  I  know  of  it  is  his  voice,  calling  out 
'  Johnny ! — Johnny  Bower  I '  — and  when  I  go  out,  I  am  sure  to 


10  ABBOTSFORD. 

be  greeted  with  a  joke  or  a  pleasant  word.  He'll  stand  and 
crack  and  lauff  wi'  me,  just  like  an  auld  wife — and  to  think 
that  of  a  man  who  has  such  an  awfu'  knowledge  o'  history !" 

One  of  the  ingenious  devices  on  which  the  worthy  little  man 
prided  himself,  was  to  place  a  visitor  opposite  to  the  Abbey, 
with  his  back  to  it,  and  bid  him  bend  down  and  look  at  it  be 
tween  his  legs.  This,  he  said,  gave  an  entire  different  aspect 
to  the  ruin.  Folks  admired  the  plan  amazingly,  but  as  to  fh-3 
"leddies,"  they  were  dainty  on  the  matter,  and  contented 
themselves  with  looking  from  under  their  arms. 

As  Johnny  Bower  piqued  himself  upon  showing  everything 
laid  down  in  the  poem,  there  was  one  passage  that  perplexed 
him  sadly.  It  was  the  opening  of  one  of  the  cantos: 

"If  thou  would'st  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day, 
Gild  but  to  flout  the  ruins  gray,"  etc. 

In  consequence  of  this  admonition,  many  of  the  most  devout 
pilgrims  to  the  ruin  could  not  be  contented  with  a  daylight  in 
spection,  and  insisted  it  could  be  nothing  unless  seen  by  the 
light  of  the  moon.  Now,  unfortunately,  the  moon  shines  but 
for  a  part  of  the  month ;  and,  what  is  still  more  unfortunate, 
is  very  apt  in  Scotland  to  be  obscured  by  clouds  and  mists. 
Johnny  was  sorely  puzzled,  therefore,  how  to  accommodate  his 
poetry-struck  visitors  with  this  indispensable  moonshine.  At 
length,  in  a  lucky  moment,  he  devised  a  substitute.  This  was 
a  great  double  tallow  candle  stuck  upon  the  end  of  a  pole,  with 
which  he  could  conduct  his  visitors  about  the  ruins  on  dark 
nights,  so  much  to  their  satisfaction  that,  at  length,  he  began 
to  think  it  even  preferable  to  the  moon  itself.  "It  does  na 
light  up  a'  the  Abbey  at  aince,  to  be  sure,"  he  would  say,  "but 
then  you  can  shift  it  about  and  show  the  auld  ruin  bit  by  bit, 
whiles  the  moon  only  shines  on  one  side." 

Honest  Johnny  Bower!  so  many  years  have  elapsed  since 
the  time  I  treat  of,  that  it  is  more  than  probable  his  simple 
head  lies  beneath  the  walls  of  his  favorite  Abbey.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  his  humble  ambition  has  been  gratified,  and  his  name 
recorded  by  the  pen  of  the  man  he  so  loved  and  honored. 


After  my  return  from  Melrose  Abbey,  Scott  proposed  a  ram 
ble  to  show  me  something  of  the  surrounding  country.  As  we 
sallied  forth,  every  dog  in  the  establishment  turned  out  to 


ABBOTSFOED.  \\ 

attend  us.  There  was  the  old  stag-hound  Maida,  that  I  have 
already  mentioned,  a  noble  animal,  and  a  great  favorite  of 
Scott's,  and  Hamlet,  the  black  greyhound,  a  wild,  thoughtless 
youngster,  not  yet  arrived  to  the  years  of  discretion;  and 
Finette,  a  beautiful  setter,  with  soft,  silken  hair,  long  pendent 
ears,  and  a  mild  eye,  the  parlor  favorite.  When  in  front  of  the 
house,  we  were  joined  by  a  superannuated  greyhound,  who 
came  from  the  kitchen  wagging  his  tail,  and  was  cheered  by 
Scott  as  an  old  friend  and  comrade. 

In  our  walks,  Scott  would  frequently  pause  in  conversation  V 
to  notice  his  dogs  and  speak  to  them,  as  if  rational  companions ; 
and  indeed  there  appears  to  be  a  vast  deal  of  rationality  in 
these  faithful  attendants  on  man,  derived  from  their  close  in 
timacy  with  him.  Maida  deported  himself  with  a  gravity 
becoming  his  age  and  size,  and  seemed  to  consider  himself 
called  upon  to  preserve  a  great  degree  of  dignity  and  decorum 
in  our  society.  As  he  jogged  along  a  little  distance  ahead  of 
us,  the  young  dogs  would  gambol  about  him,  leap  on  his  neck, 
worry  at  his  ears,  and  endeavor  to  tease  him  into  a  frolic.  The 
old  dog  would  keep  on  for  a  long  time  with  imperturbable 
solemnity,  now  and  then  seeming  to  rebuke  the  wantonness  of 
his  young  companions.  At  length  he  would  make  a  sudden 
turn,  seize  one  of  them,  and  tumble  him  in  the  dust;  then 
giving  a  glance  at  us,  as  much  as  to  say,  "You  see,  gentlemen, 
I  can't  help  giving  way  to  this  nonsense,"  would  resume  his 
gravity  and  jog  on  as  before. 

Scott  amused  himself  with  these  peculiarities.  "I  make  no 
doubt,"  said  he,  "when  Maida  is  alone  with  these  young  dogs, 
he  throws  gravity  aside,  and  plays  the  boy  as  much  as  any  of 
them ;  but  he  is  ashamed  to  do  so  in  our  company,  and  seems 
to  say,  '  Ha'  done  with  your  nonsense,  youngsters ;  what  will 
the  laird  and  that  other  gentleman  think  of  me  if  I  give  way 
to  such  foolery  ? ' " 

Maida  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  a  scene  on  board  an  armed 
yacht  in  which  he  made  an  excursion  with  his  friend  Adam 
Ferguson.  They  had  taken  much  notice  of  the  boatswain, 
who  was  a  fine  sturdy  seaman,  and  evidently  felt  flattered  by 
their  attention.  On  one  occasion  the  crew  were  "piped  to 
fun,"  and  the  sailors  were  dancing  and  cutting  all  kinds  of 
capers  to  the  music  of  the  ship's  band.  The  boatswain  looked 
on  with  a  wistful  eye,  as  if  he  would  like  to  join  in:  but  a 
glance  at  Scott  and  Ferguson  showed  that  there  was  a  struggle 
with  his  dignity,  fearing  to  lessen  himself  in  their  eyes.  At 


12  ABBOTSFORD. 

length  one  of  LIs  messmates  came  up,  and  seizing  him  by  the 
arm,  challenged  him  to  a  jig.  The  boatswain,  continued  Scott, 
after  a  little  hesitation  complied,  made  an  awkward  gambol  or 
two,  like  our  friend  Maida,  but  soon  gave  it  up.  ' '  It's  of  no 
use,"  said  he,  jerking  up  his  waistband  and  giving  a  side 
glance  at  us,  "one  can't  dance  always  nouther." 

Scott  amused  himself  with  the  peculiarities  of  another  of  his 
dogs,  a  little  shamefaced  terrier,  with  large  glassy  eyes,  one  of 
the  most  sensitive  little  bodies  to  insult  and  indignity  in  the 
world.  If  ever  he  whipped  him,  he  said,  the  little  fellow  would 
sneak  off  and  hide  himself  from  the  light  of  day,  in  a  lumber 
garret,  whence  there  was  no  drawing  him  forth  but  by  the 
sound  of  the  chopping-knife,  as  if  chopping  up  his  victuals, 
when  he  would  steal  forth  with  humble  and  downcast  look,  but 
would  skulk  away  again  if  any  one  regarded  him. 

While  we  were  discussing  the  humors  and  peculiarities  of 
our  canine  companions,  some  object  provoked  their  spleen,  and 
produced  a  sharp  and  petulant  bai'king  from  the  smaller  fry, 
but  it  was  some  time  before  Maida  was  sufficiently  aroused  to 
ramp  forward  two  or  three  bounds  and  join  in  the  chorus, 
with  a  deep-mouthed  bow-wow  1 

It  was  but  a  transient  outbreak,  and  he  returned  instantly, 
wagging  his  tail,  and  looking  up  dubiously  in  his  master's 
face ;  uncertain  whether  he  would  censure  or  applaud. 

"Aye,  aye,  old  boy !"  cried  Scott,  "you  have  done  wonders. 
You  have  shaken  the  Eildon  hills  with  your  roaring ;  you  may 
now  lay  by  your  artillery  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Maida  is 
like  the  great  gun  at  Constantinople,"  continued  he;  "it  takes 
so  long  to  get  it  ready,  that  the  small  guns  can  fire  off  a  dozen 
times  first,  but  when  it  does  go  off  it  plays  the  very  d — 1." 

These  simple  anecdotes  may  serve  to  show  the  delightful  play 
of  Scott's  humors  and  feelings  in  private  life.  His  domestic 
animals  were  his  friends-,  everything  about  him  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  the  light  of  his  countenance ;  the  face  of  the  humblest 
dependent  brightened  at  his  approach,  as  if  he  anticipated  a  cor 
dial  and  cheering  word.  I  had  occasion  to  observe  this  par 
ticularly  hi  a  visit  which  we  paid  to  a  quarry,  whence  several 
men  were  cutting  stone  for  the  new  edifice ;  who  all  paused 
from  their  labor  to  have  a  pleasant  "  crack  wi'  the  laird."  One 
of  them  was  a  burgess  of  Selkirk,  with  whom  Scott  had  some 
joke  about  the  old  song: 

"  Up  with  the  Souters  o'  Selkirk, 
And  down  with  the  Karl  of  Home." 


ABBOTSFOED.  13 

Another  was  precentor  at  the  Kirk,  and,  besides  leading  the 
psalmody  on  Sunday,  taught  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  neigh 
borhood  dancing  on  week  days,  in  the  winter  time,  when  out- 
of-door  labor  was  scarce. 

Among  the  rest  was  a  tall,  straight  old  fellow,  with  a  health 
ful  complexion  and  silver  hair,  and  a  small  round-crowned 
white  hat.  He  had  been  about  to  shoulder  a  hod,  but  paused, 
and  stood  looking  at  Scott,  with  a  slight  sparkling  of  his  bluo 
eye,  as  if  waiting  his  turn ;  for  the  old  fellow  knew  himself  to 
be  a  favorite. 

Scott  accosted  him  in  an  affable  tone,  and  asked  for  a  pinch 
of  snuff .  The  old  man  drew  forth  a  horn  snuff-box.  "Hoot, 
man,"  said  Scott,  "not  that  old  mull:  where's  the  bonnie 
French  one  that  I  brought  you  from  Paris?"  "Troth,  your 
honor,"  replied  the  old  fellow,  "sic  a  mull  as  that  is  nae  for 
week-days. " 

On  leaving  the  quarry,  Scott  informed  me  that  when  absent 
at  Paris,  he  had  purchased  several  trifling  articles  as  presents 
for  his  dependents,  and  among  others  the  gay  snuff-box  in 
question,  which  was  so  carefully  reserved  for  Sundays,  by  the 
veteran.  "  It  was  not  so  much  the  value  of  the  gifts,"  said  he, 
"  that  pleased  them,  as  the  idea  that  the  laird  should  think  of 
them  when  so  far  away." 

The  old  man  in  question,  I  found,  was  a  great  favorite  with 
Scott.  If  I  recollect  right,  he  had  been  a  soldier  in  early  life, 
and  his  straight,  erect  person,  his  ruddy  yet  rugged  counte 
nance,  his  gray  hair,  and  an  arch  gleam  in  his  blue  eye,  reminded 
me  of  the  description  of  Edie  Ochiltree.  I  find  that  the  old 
fellow  has  since  been  introduced  by  Wilkie,  in  his  picture  of  the 
Scott  family. 


We  rambled  on  among  scenes  which  had  been  familiar  in 
Scottish  song,  and  rendered  classic  by  pastoral  muse,  long 
before  Scott  had  thrown  the  rich  mantle  of  his  poetry  over 
them.  What  a  thrill  of  pleasure  did  I  feel  when  first  I  saw  the 
broom-covered  tops  of  the  Cowden  Knowes,  peeping  above  the 
gray  hills  of  the  Tweed :  and  what  touching  associations  were 
called  up  by  the  sight  of  Ettrick  Vale,  Galla  Water,  and  the 
Braes  of  Yarrow !  Every  turn  brought  to  mind  some  house 
hold  air — some  almost  forgotten  song  of  the  nursery,  by  which 
I  had  been  lulled  to  sleep  in  my  childhood ;  and  with  them  the 
looks  and  voices  of  those  who  had  sung  them,  and  who  were 


14  ABBOTSFORD. 

now  no  more.  It  is  these  melodies,  chanted  in  our  ears  in  the 
days  of  infancy,  and  connected  with  the  memory  of  those  we 
have  loved,  and  who  have  passed  away,  that  clothe  Scot 
tish  landscape  with  such  tender  associations.  The  Scottish 
songs,  in  general,  have  something  intrinsically  melancholy  in 
them ;  owing,  in  all  probability,  to  the  pastoral  and  lonely  lif e 
of  those  who  composed  them ;  who  were  often  mere  shepherds, 
tending  their  flocks  in  the  solitary  glens,  or  folding  them  among 
the  naked  hills.  Many  of  these  rustic  bards  have  passed  away, 
without  leaving  a  name  behind  them ;  nothing  remains  of  them 
but  their  sweet  and  touching  songs,  which  live,  like  echoes, 
about  the  places  they  once  inhabited.  Most  of  these  simple 
effusions  of  pastoral  poets  are  linked  with  some  favorite  haunt 
of  the  poet ;  and  in  this  way,  not  a  mountain  or  valley,  a  town 
or  tower,  green  shaw  or  running  stream,  in  Scotland,  but  has 
some  popular  air  connected  with  it,  that  makes  its  very  name 
a  key-note  to  a  whole  train  of  delicious  fancies  and  feelings. 

Let  me  step  forward  in  time,  and  mention  how  sensible  I  was 
to  the  power  of  these  simple  airs,  in  a  visit  which  I  made  to 
Ayr,  the  birthplace  of  Robert  Burns.  I  passed  a  whole  morn 
ing  about  "  the  banks  and  braes  of  bonnie  Boon,"  with  his  ten 
der  little  love  verses  running  in  my  head.  I  found  a  poor 
Scotch  carpenter  at  work  among  the  ruins  of  Kirk  Alloway, 
which  was  to  be  converted  into  a  school-house.  Finding  the 
purpose  of  my  visit,  he  left  his  work,  sat  down  with  me  on  a 
grassy  grave,  close  by  where  Burns'  father  was  buried,  and 
talked  of  the  poet,  whom  he  had  known  personally.  He  said 
his  songs  were  familiar  to  the  poorest  and  most  illiterate  of  the 
country  folk,  "and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  country  had 
grown  more  beautiful,  since  Bums  had  written  his  bonnie  little 
songs  about  it." 

I  found  Scott  was  quite  an  enthusiast  on  the  subject  of  the 
popular  songs  of  his  country,  and  he  seemed  gratified  to  find 
me  so  alive  to  them.  Their  effect  in  calling  up  in  my  mind  the 
recollections  of  early  times  and  scenes  in  which  I  had  first 
heard  them,  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  the  lines  of  his  poor 
f  lend,  Leyden,  to  the  Scottish  muse: 


"  In  youth's  first  morn,  alert  and  gay, 
Ere  rolling  years  had  passed  away, 

Remembered  like  a  morning  dream, 
I  heard  the  dulcet  measures  float, 
In  many  a  liquid  winding  note, 
Along  the  bank  of  Teviot's  stream. 


ABBOTSFORD.  15 

"  Sweet  sounds!  that  oft  have  soothed  to  rest 
The  sorrows  of  my  guileless  breast, 

And  charmed  away  mine  infant  tears; 
Fond  memory  shall  your  strains  repeat, 
Like  distant  echoes,  doubly  sweet, 

That  on  the  wild  the  traveller  hears." 

Scott  went  on  to  expatiate  on  the  popular  songs  of  Scot 
land.  "  They  are  a  part  of  our  national  inheritance,"  said  he, 
•'and  something  that  we  may  truly  call  our  own.  They  have 
no  foreign  taint ;  they  have  the  pure  breath  of  the  heather  and 
the  mountain  breeze.  All  genuine  legitimate  races  that  have 
descended  from  the  ancient  Britons;  such  as  the  Scotch,  the 
Welsh,  and  the  Irish,  have  national  airs.  The  English  have 
none,  because  they  are  not  natives  of  the  soil,  or,  at  least,  are 
mongrels.  Their  music  is  all  made  up  of  foreign  scraps,  like  a 
harlequin  jacket,  or  a  piece  of  mosaic.  Even  in  Scotland,  we 
have  comparatively  few  national  songs  in  the  eastern  part, 
where  we  have  had  most  influx  of  strangers.  A  real  old 
Scottish  song  is  a  cairngorm — a  gem  of  our  own  mountains ;  or 
rather,  it  is  a  precious  relic  of  old  times,  that  bears  the  national 
character  stamped  upon  it — like  a  cameo,  that  shows  what 
the  national  visage  was  in  former  days,  before  the  breed  was 
crossed." 

While  Scott  was  thus  discoursing,  we  were  passing  up  a 
narrow  glen,  with  the  dogs  beating  about,  to  right  and  left, 
when  suddenly  a  blackcock  burst  upon  the  wing. 

"Aha!"  cried  Scott,  "there  will  be  a  good  shot  for  Master 
Walter ;  we  must  send  him  this  way  with  his  gun,  when  we  go 
home.  Walter's  the  family  sportsman  now,  and  keeps  us  in 
game.  I  have  pretty  nigh  resigned  my  gun  to  him ;  for  I  find 
I  cannot  trudge  about  as  briskly  as  formerly." 

Our  ramble  took  us  on  the  hills  commanding  an  extensive 
prospect.  "Now, "said  Scott,  "I  have  brought  you,  like  the 
pilgrim  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  to  the  top  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains,  that  I  may  show  you  all  the  goodly  regions  here 
abouts.  Yonder  is  Lammermuir,  and  Smalholme;  and  there 
you  have  Gallashiels,  and  Torwoodlie,  and  Galla water;  and  in 
that  direction  you  see  Teviotdale,  and  the  Braes  of  Yarrow; 
and  Ettrick  stream,  winding  along,  like  a  silver  thread,  to 
throw  itself  into  the  Tweed. " 

He  went  on  thus  to  call  over  names  celebrated  in  Scottish 
song,  and  most  of  which  had  recently  received  a  romantic  in 
terest  from  his  own  pen.  In  fact,  I  saw  a  great  part  of  the 
border  country  spread  out  before  me,  and  could  trace  the 


16  ABBOTSFORD. 

scenes  of  those  poems  and  romances  which  had,  in  a  manner, 
bewitched  the  world.  I  gazed  about  me  for  a  time  with  mute 
surprise,  I  may  almost  say  with  disappointment.  I  beheld  a 
mere  succession  of  gray  waving  hills,  line  beyond  line,  as  far 
as  my  eye  could  reach;  monotonous  in  their  aspect,  and  so 
destitute  of  trees,  that  one  could  almost  see  a  stout  fly  walking 
along  their  profile ;  and  the  far-famed  Tweed  appeared  a  naked 
stream,  flowing  between  bare  hills,  without  a  tree  or  thicket  on 
its  banks ;  and  yet,  such  had  been  the  magic  web  of  poetry  and 
romance  thrown  over  the  whole,  that  it  had  a  greater  charm 
for  me  than  the  richest  sceneiy  I  beheld  in  England. 

I  could  not  help  giving  utterance  to  my  thoughts.  Scott 
hummed  for  a  moment  to  himself,  and  looked  grave ;  he  had  no 
idea  of  having  his  muse  complimented  at  the  expense  of  his 
native  hills.  "It  may  be  partiality,"  said  he,  at  length;  "but 
to  my  eye,  these  gray  hills  and  all  this  wild  border  country 
have  beauties  peculiar  to  themselves.  I  like  the  very  naked 
ness  of  the  land ;  it  has  something  bold,  and  stern,  and  solitary 
about  it.  When  I  have  been  for  some  time  in  the  rich  scenery 
about  Edinburgh,  which  is  like  ornamented  garden  land,  I  be 
gin  to  wish  myself  back  again  among  my  own  honest  gray 
hills ;  and  if  I  did  not  see  the  heather  at  least  once  a  year,  1 
think  I  should  die ! " 

The  last  words  were  said  with  an  honest  warmth,  accom 
panied  with  a  thump  on  the  ground  with  his  staff,  by  way  of 
emphasis,  that  showed  his  heart  was  in  his  speech.  He  vindi 
cated  the  Tweed,  too,  as  a  beautiful  stream  in  itself,  and  ob 
served  that  he  did  not  dislike  it  for  being  bare  of  trees,  prob 
ably  from  having  been  much  of  an  angler  in  his  time,  and  an 
angler  does  not  like  to  have  a  stream  overhung  by  trees,  which 
embarrass  him  in  the  exercise  of  his  rod  and  line. 

I  took  occasion  to  plead,  in  like  manner,  the  associations  of 
early  life,  for  my  disappointment  in  respect  to  the  surrounding 
scenery.  I  had  been  so  accustomed  to  hills  crowned  with  for 
ests,  and  streams  breaking  their  way  through  a  wilderness  of 
trees,  that  all  my  ideas  of  romantic  landscape  were  apt  to  be 
well  wooded. 

"Aye,  and  that's  the  great  charm  of  your  country,"  cried 
Scott.  "You  love  the  forest  as  I  do  the  heather — but  I  would 
not  have  you  think  I  do  not  feel  the  glory  of  a  great  woodland 
prospect.  There  is  nothing  I  should  like  more  than  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  your  grand,  wild,  original  forests  with  the  idea 
of  hundreds  of  miles  of  untrodden  forest  around  me.  I  once 


ABBOT8FORD.  17 

saw,  at  Leith,  an  immense  stick  of  timber,  just  landed  from 
America.  It  must  have  been  an  enormous  tree  when  it  stood 
on  its  native  soil,  at  its  full  height,  and  with  all  its  branches. 
I  gazed  at  it  with  admiration ;  it  seemed  like  one  of  the  gigantic 
obelisks  which  are  now  and  then  brought  from  Egypt,  to  shame 
the  pigmy  monuments  of  Europe;  and,  in  fact,  these  vast 
aboriginal  trees,  that  have  sheltered  the  Indians  before  the  in 
trusion  of  the  white  men,  are  the  monuments  and  antiquities  of 
your  country." 

The  conversation  here  turned  upon  Campbell's  poem  of 
"Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  as  illustrative  of  the  poetic  materials 
furnished  by  American  scenery.  Scott  spoke  of  it  in  that  lib 
eral  style  in  which  I  always  found  him  to  speak  of  the  writings 
of  his  contemporaries.  He  cited  several  passages  of  it  with 
great  delight.  '"What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  he,  "that  Campbell 
does  not  write  more  and  oftener,  and  give  full  sweep  to  his 
genius.  He  hns  wings  that  would  bear  him,  to  the  skies;  and 
he  does  now  and  then  spread  them  grandly,  but  folds  them  up 
again  and  resumes  his  perch,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  launch 
away.  He  don't  know  or  won't  trust  his  own  strength.  Even 
when  he  has  done  a  thing  well,  he  has  often  misgivings  about 
it.  He  loft  out  several  fine  passages  of  his  Lochiel,  but  I  got 
him  to  restore  some  of  them."  Here  Scott  repeated  several 
passages  in  a  magnificent  style.  "What  a  grand  idea  is 
that,"  said  he,  "about  prophetic  boding,  or,  in  common  par 
lance,  second  sight— 

'  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before.' 

It  is  a  noble  thought,  and  nobly  expressed.  And  there's  that 
glorious  little  poem,  too,  of  '  Hohenlinden ;'  after  he  had  written 
it,  he  did  not  seem  to  think  much  of  it,  but  considered  some  of 

it  'd d  drum  and  trumpet  lines.'    I  got  him  to  recite  it  to 

me,  and  I  believe  that  the  delight  I  felt  and  expressed  had  an 
effect  in  inducing  him  to  print  it.  The  fact  is,"  added  he, 
"  Campbell  is,  in  a  manner,  a  bugbear  to  himself.  The  bright 
ness  of  his  early  success  is  a  detriment  to  all  his  further  efforts. 
He  is  afraid  of  the  shadoiv  that  his  own  fame  casts  before  him." 
While  we  were  thus  chatting,  we  heard  the  report  of  a  gun 
among  the  hills.  "That's  Walter,  I  think,"  said  Scott;  "he 
has  finished  his  morning's  studies,  and  is  out  with  his  gun.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  he  had  met  with  the  blackcock ;  L 
BO,  we  shall  have  an  addition  to  our  larder,  for  Walter  is  a 
pretty  sure  shot." 


18  ABBOTSFORD. 

I  inquired  into  the  nature  of  Walter's  studies.  "  Faith,"  said 
Scott,  "I  can't  say  much  on  that  head.  I  am  not  over  bent 
upon  making  prodigies  of  any  of  my  children.  As  to  Walter, 
I  taught  him,  while  a  boy,  to  ride,  and  shoot,  and  speak  the 
truth ;  as  to  the  other  parts  of  his  education,  I  leave  them  to  a 
very  worthy  young  man,  the  son  of  one  of  our  clergymen,  who 
instructs  all  my  children." 

I  afterward  became  acquainted  with  the  young  man  in  ques 
tion,  George  Thomson,  son  of  the  minister  of  Melrose,  and 
found  him  possessed  of  much  learning,  intelligence,  and  modest 
worth.  He  used  to  come  every  day  from  his  father's  residence 
at  Melrose  to  superintend  the  studies  of  the  young  folks,  and 
occasionally  took  his  meals  at  Abbotsf  ord,  where  he  was  highly 
esteemed.  Nature  had  cut  him  out,  Scott  used  to  say,  for  a 
stalwart  soldier,  for  he  was  tall,  vigorous,  active,  and  fond  of 
athletic  exercises,  but  accident  had  marred  her  work,  the  loss 
of  a  limb  in  boyhood  having  reduced  him  to  a  wooden  leg.  He 
was  brought  up,  therefore,  for  the  Church,  whence  he  was 
occasionally  called  the  Dominie,  and  is  supposed,  by  his  mix 
ture  of  learning,  simplicity,  and  amiable  eccentricity,  to  have 
furnished  many  traits  for  the  character  of  Dominie  Sampson. 
I  believe  he  often  acted  as  Scott's  amanuensis,  when  composing 
his  novels.  With  him  the  young  people  were  occupied  in 
general  during  the  early  part  of  the  day,  after  which  they  took 
all  kinds  of  healthful  recreations  in  the  open  air ;  for  Scott  was 
as  solicitous  to  strengthen  their  bodies  as  their  minds. 

We  had  not  walked  much  further  before  we  saw  the  two 
Miss  Scotts  advancing  along  the  hillside  to  meet  us.  The 
morning  studies  being  over,  they  had  set  off  to  take  a  ramble 
on  the  hills,  and  gather  heather  blossoms,  with  which  to 
decorate  their  hair  for  dinner.  As  they  came  bounding  lightly 
like  young  fawns,  and  their  dresses  fluttering  in  the  pure  sum 
mer  breeze,  I  was  reminded  of  Scott's  own  description  of  his 
children  in  his  introduction  to  one  of  the  cantos  of  Marmion — 

"  My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Their  summer  gambols  tell  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask  will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay, 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 

**  Yes,  prattlers,  yes,  the  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  di  lyht  to  tie; 


ABBOTSFORD.  19 

The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round, 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day." 

As  they  approached,  the  dogs  all  sprang  forward  and  gam 
bolled  around  them.  They  played  with  them  for  a  time,  and 
then  joined  us  with  countenances  full  of  health  and  glee. 
Sophia,  the  eldest,  was  the  most  lively  and  joyous,  having 
much  of  her  father's  varied  spirit  in  conversation,  and  seem 
ing  to  catch  excitement  from  his  words  and  looks.  Ann  was 
of  quieter  mood,  rather  silent,  owing,  in  some  measure,  no 
doubt,  to  her  being  some  years  younger. 


At  dinner  Scott  had  laid  by  his  half -rustic  dress,  and  ap 
peared  clad  in  black.  The  girls,  too,  in  completing  their  toilet, 
had  twisted  in  their  hair  the  sprigs  of  purple  heather  which 
they  had  gathered  on  the  hillside,  and  looked  all  fresh  and 
blooming  from  their  breezy  walk. 

There  was  no  guest  at  dinner  but  myself.  Around  the  table 
were  two  or  three  dogs  in  attendance.  Maida,  the  old  stag- 
hound,  took  his  seat  at  Scott's  elbow,  looking  up  wistfully  in 
his  master's  eye,  while  Finette,  the  pet  spaniel,  placed  herself 
near  Mrs.  Scott,  by  whom,  I  soon  perceived,  she  was  com 
pletely  spoiled. 

The  conversation  happening  to  turn  on  the  merits  of  his  dogs, 
Scott  spoke  with  great  feeling  and  affection  of  his  favorite, 
Camp,  who  is  depicted  by  his  side  in  the  earlier  engravings  of 
him.  He  talked  of  him  as  of  a  real  friend  whom  he  had  lost, 
and  Sophia  Scott,  looking  up  archly  in  his  face,  observed  that 
Papa  shed  a  few  tears  when  poor  Camp  died.  I  may  here 
mention  another  testimonial  of  Scott's  fondness  for  his  dogs, 
and  his  humorous  mode  of  showing  it,  which  I  subsequently 
met  with.  Rambling  with  him  one  morning  about  the  grounds 
adjacent  to  the  house,  I  observed  a  small  antique  monument, 
on  which  was  inscribed,  in  Gothic  characters — 

"  Cy  git  le  preux  Percy." 
(Here  lies  the  brave  Percy.) 

I  paused,  supposing  it  to  be  the  tomb  of  some  stark  warrior  of 
the  olden  time,  but  Scott  drew  me  on.  "Pooh !"  cried  he,  "it's 
nothing  but  one  of  the  monuments  of  my  nonsense,  of  which 
you'll  find  enough  hereabouts."  I  learnt  afterward  that  it  was 
the  grave  of  a  favorite  greyhound. 


20  ABBOTSFORD. 

Among  the  other  important  and  privileged  members  of  the 
household  who  figured  in  attendance  at  the  dinner,  was  a  large 
gray  cat,  who,  I  observed,  was  regaled  from  time  to  time  with 
titbits  from  the  table.  This  sage  grimalkin  was  a  favorite  of 
both  master  and  mistress,  and  slept  at  night  in  their  room ;  and 
Scott  laughingly  observed,  that  one  of  the  least  wise  parts  of 
their  establishment  was,  that  the  window  was  left  open  at 
night  for  puss  to  go  in  and  out.  The  cat  assumed  a  kind  of 
ascendancy  among  the  quadrupeds — sitting  in  state  in  Scott's 
arm-chair,  and  occasionally  stationing  himself  on  a  chair  beside 
the  door,  as  if  to  review  his  subjects  as  they  passed,  giving 
each  dog  a  cuff  beside  the  ears  as  he  went  by.  This  clapper 
clawing  was  always  taken  in  good  part ;  it  appeared  to  be,  in 
fact,  a  mere  act  of  sovereignty  on  the  part  of  grimalkin,  to 
remind  the  others  of  their  vassalage ;  which  they  acknowledged 
by  the  most  perfect  acquiescence.  A  general  harmony  pre 
vailed  between  sovereign  and  subjects,  and  they  would  all 
sleep  together  in  the  sunshine. 

Scott  was  full,  of  anecdote  and  conversation  during  dinner. 
He  made  some  admirable  remarks  upon  the  Scottish  character, 
and  spoke  strongly  in  praise  of  the  quiet,  orderly,  honest 
conduct  of  his  neighbors,  which  one  would  hardly  expect,  said 
he,  from  the  descendants  of  moss  troopers,  and  borderers,  in  a 
neighborhood  famed  in  old  times  for  brawl  and  feud,  and 
violence  of  all  kinds.  He  said  he  had,  in  his  official  capacity 
of  sheriff,  administered  the  laws  for  a  number  of  years,  during 
which  there  had  been  very  few  trials.  The  old  feuds  and  local 
interests,  and  rivalries,  and  animosities  of  the  Scotch,  however, 
still  slept,  he  said,  in  their  ashes,  and  might  easily  be  roused. 
Their  hereditary  f eeling  for  names  was  still  great.  It  was  not 
always  safe  to  have  even  the  game  of  foot-ball  between  villages, 
the  old  clannish  spirit  was  too  apt  to  break  out.  The  Scotch, 
he  said,  were  more  revengeful  than  the  English ;  they  carried 
their  resentments  longer,  and  would  sometimes  lay  them  by 
for  years,  but  would  be  sure  to  gratify  them  in  the  end. 

The  ancient  jealousy  between  the  Highlanders  and  the  Low- 
landers  still  continued  to  a  certain  degree,  the  former  looking 
upon  the  latter  as  an  inferior  race,  less  brave  and  hardy,  but  at 
the  same  tune,  suspecting  them  of  a  disposition  to  take  airs 
upon  themselves  under  the  idea  of  superior  refinement.  This 
made  them  techy  and  ticklish  company  for  a  stranger  on 
his  first  coming  among  them;  ruffling  up  and  putting  them 
selves  upon  their  mettle  on  ILc  slightest  occasion,  so  that  he 


ABBOTSFORD.  21 

had  in  a  manner  to  quarrel  and  fight  his  way  into  their  good 
graces. 

He  instanced  a  case  in  point  in  a  brother  of  Mungo  Park, 
who  went  to  take  up  his  residence  in  a  wild  neighborhood  of 
the  Highlands.  He  soon  found  himself  considered  as  an  intru 
der,  and  that  there  was  a  disposition  among  these  cocks  of  the 
hills,  to  fix  a  quarrel  on  him,  trusting  that,  being  a  Lowlander, 
he  would  show  the  white  feather. 

For  a  time  he  bore  their  flings  and  taunts  with  great  coolness, 
until  one,  presuming  on  his  forbearance,  drew  forth  a  dirk,  and 
holding  it  before  him,  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen  a  weapon 
like  that  in  his  part  of  the  country.  Park,  who  was  a  Hercules 
in  frame,  seized  the  dirk,  and,  with  one  blow,  drove  it  through 
an  oaken  table:—"  Yes,  "replied  he,  "and  tell  your  friends  that 
a  man  from  the  Lowlands  drove  it  where  the  devil  himself  can 
not  draw  it  out  again."  All  persons  were  delighted  with  the 
feat,  and  the  words  that  accompanied  it.  They  drank  with 
Park  to  a  better  acquaintance,  and  were  staunch  friends  ever 
afterwards. 


After  dinner  we  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  which  served 
also  for  study  and  library.  Against  the  wall  on  one  side  was  a 
long  writing-table,  with  drawers;  surmounted  by  a  small 
cabinet  of  polished  wood,  with  folding  doors  richly  studded 
with  brass  ornaments,  within  which  Scott  kept  his  most  valu 
able  papers.  Above  the  cabinet,  in  a  kind  of  niche,  was  a 
complete  corslet  of  glittering  steel,  with  a  closed  helmet,  and 
flanked  by  gauntlets  and  battle-axes.  Around  were  hung 
trophies  and  relics  of  various  kinds :  a  cimeter  of  Tippoo  Saib ; 
a  Highland  broadsword  from  Flodden  Field ;  a  pair  of  Rippon 
spurs  from  Bannockburn ;  and  above  all,  a  gun  which  had  be 
longed  to  Rob  Roy,  and  bore  his  initials,  R.  M.  G.,  an  object  of 
peculiar  interest  to  me  at  the  time,  as  it  was  understood  Scott 
was  actually  engaged  in  printing  a  novel  founded  on  the  story 
of  that  famous  outlaw. 

On  each  side  of  the  cabinet  were  book-cases,  well  stored  with 
works  of  romantic  fiction  in  various  languages,  many  of  them, 
rare  and  antiquated.  This,  however,  was  merely  his  cottage 
library,  the  principal  part  of  his  books  being  at  Edinburgh. 

From  this  little  cabinet  of  curiosities  Scott  drew  forth  a 
manuscript  picked  up  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  containing 
copies  of  several  songs  popular  at  the  time  in  France.  The 


22  ABBOTSFORD. 

paper  was  dabbled  with  blood — ' '  the  very  life-blood,  very  possi 
bly,"  said  Scott,  "  of  some  gay  young  officer,  who  had  cherished 
these  songs  as  a  keepsake  from  some  lady-love  in  Paris." 

He  adverted,  in  a  mellow  and  delightful  manner,  to  the  little 
half -gay,  half -melancholy,  campaigning  song,  said  to  have  been 
composed  by  General  Wolfe,  and  sung  by  him  at  the  mess 
table,  on  the  eve  of  the  storming  of  Quebec,  in  which  he  fell  so 
gloriously: 

"  Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 
Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Whose  business  'tis  to  diel 
For  should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  him  who  made  us,  boys 
We're  free  from  pain: 
But  should  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  kind  landlady 
Makes  all  well  again." 

"So,"  added  he,  "the  poor  lad  who  fell  at  Waterloo,  in  al 
probability,  had  been  singing  these  songs  in  his  tent  the  night 
before  the  battle,  and  thinking  of  the  fair  dame  who  had 
taught  him  them,  and  promising  himself,  should  he  outlive 
the  campaign,  to  return  to  her  all  glorious  from  the  wars." 

I  find  since  that  Scott  published  translations  of  these  songs 
among  some  of  his  smaller  poems. 

The  evening  passed  away  delightfully  in  this  quaint-looking 
apartment,  half  study,  half  drawing-room.  Scott  read  several 
passages  from  the  old  romance  of  "Arthur,"  with  a  fine,  deep 
sonorous  voice,  and  a  gravity  of  tone  that  seemed  to  suit  the 
antiquated,  black-letter  volume.  It  was  a  rich  treat  to  hear 
such  a  work,  read  by  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place ;  and 
his  appearance  as  he  sat  reading,  in  a  large  armed  chair,  with  his 
favorite  hound  Maida  at  his  feet,  and  surrounded  by  books  and 
relics,  and  border  trophies,  would  have  formed  an  admirable 
and  most  characteristic  picture. 

While  Scott  was  reading,  the  sage  grimalkin,  already  men 
tioned,  had  taken  his  seat  in  a  chair  beside  the  fire,  and  re 
mained  with  fixed  eye  and  grave  demeanor,  as  if  listening  to 
the  reader.  I  observed  to  Scott  that  his  cat  seemed  to  have  a 
black-letter  taste  in  literature. 

"Ah,  "said  he,  "these  cats  are  a  very  mysterious  kind  of 
folk.  There  is  always  more  passing  in  their  minds  than  we  are 
aware  of.  It  comes  no  doubt  from  their  being  so  familiar  with 
witches  and  warlocks."  He  went  on  to  tell  a  little  story  about 


AJ3UOTSFORD.  23 

a  gude  man  who  was  returning  to  his  cottage  one  night,  when, 
in  a  lonely  out-of-the-way  place,  he  met  with  a  funeral  proces 
sion  of  cats  all  in  mourning,  bearing  one  of  their  race  to  the 
grave  in  a  coffin  covered  with  a  black  velvet  pall.  The  worthy 
man,  astonished  and  half -frightened  at  so  strange  a  pageant, 
hastened  home  and  told  what  he  had  seen  to  his  wife  and  chil 
dren.  Scarce  had  he  finished,  when  a  great  black  cat  that  sat 
beside  the  fire  raised  himself  up,  exclaimed  "Then  I  am  king 
of  the  cats !"  and  vanished  up  the  chimney.  The  funeral  seen 
by  the  gude  man,  was  one  of  the  cat  dynasty. 

"  Our  grimalkin  here," added  Scott,  "sometimes  reminds  me 
of  the  story,  by  the  airs  of  sovereignty  which  he  assumes ;  and 
I  am  apt  to  treat  him  with  respect  from  the  idea  that  he  may 
be  a  great  prince  incog. ,  and  may  some  time  or  other  come  to 
the  throne." 

In  this  way  Scott  would  make  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of 
even  the  dumb  animals  about  him  subjects  for  humorous  re 
mark  or  whimsical  story. 

Our  evening  was  enlivened  also  by  an  occasional  song  from 
Sophia  Scott,  at  the  request  of  her  father.  She  never  wanted 
to  be  asked  twice,  but  complied  frankly  and  cheerfully.  Her 
songs  were  all  Scotch,  sung  without  any  accompaniment,  in  a 
simple  manner,  but  with  great  spirit  and  expression,  and  in 
their  native  dialects,  which  gave  them  an  additional  charm. 
It  was  delightful  to  hear  her  carol  off  in  sprightly  style,  and 
with  an  animated  air,  some  of  those  generous-spirited  old 
Jacobite  songs,  once  cursent  among  the  adherents  of  the  Pre 
tender  in  Scotland,  in  which  he  is  designated  by  the  appellation 
of  "  The  Young  Chevalier." 

These  songs  were  much  relished  by  Scott,  notwithstanding 
his  loyalty;  for  the  unfortunate  "Chevalier"  has  always  been 
a  hero  of  romance  with  him,  as  he  has  with  niany  other 
staunch  adherents  to  the  House  of  Hanover,  now  that  the 
Stuart  line  has  lost  all  its  terrors.  In  speaking  on  the  subject, 
Scott  mentioned  as  a  curious  fact,  that,  among  the  papers  of 
the  ' '  Chevalier, "  which  had  been  submitted  by  government  to 
his  inspection,  he  had  found  a  memorial  to  Charles  from  some 
adherents  in  America,  dated  1778,  proposing  to  set  up  his  stan 
dard  in  the  back  settlements.  I  regret  that,  at  the  time,  I  did 
not  make  more  particular  inquiries  of  Scott  on  the  subject ;  the 
document  in  question,  however,  in  all  probability,  still  exists 
among  the  Pretender's  papers,  which  are  in  the  possession  of 
the  British  Government. 


24  ABBOTSFORD. 

in  the  course  of  the  evening,  Scott  related  the  story  of  a  whim 
sical  picture  hanging  hi  the  room,  which  had  been  drawn  for  him 
by  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  It  represented  the  doleful  per 
plexity  of  a  wealthy  and  handsome  young  English  knight  of 
the  olden  time,  who,  in  the  course  of  a  border  foray,  had  been 
captured  and  carried  off  to  the  castle  of  a  hard-headed  and 
high-handed  old  baron.  The  unfortunate  youth  was  thrown 
into  a  dungeon,  and  a  tall  gallows  erected  before  the  castle 
gate  for  his  execution.  When  all  was  ready,  he  was  brought 
into  the  castle  hall  where  the  grim  baron  was  seated  in 
state,  with  his  warriors  armed  to  the  teeth  around  him,  and 
was  given  his  choice,  either  to  swing  on  the  gibbet  or  to  marry 
the  baron's  daughter.  The  last  may  be  thought  an  easy  alterna 
tive,  but  unfortunately,  the  baron's  young  lady  was  hideously 
ugly,  with  a  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  so  that  not  a  suitor  was  to 
be  had  for  her,  either  for  love  or  money,  and  she  was  known 
throughout  the  border  country  by  the  name  of  Muckle-mouthed 
Mag! 

The  picture  in  question  represented  the  unhappy  dilemma  of 
the  handsome  youth.  Before  him  sat  the  grim  baron,  with  a 
face  worthy  of  the  father  of  such  a  daughter,  and  looking  dag 
gers  and  ratsbane.  On  one  side  of  him  was  Muckle-mouthed 
Mag,  with  an  amorous  smile  across  the  whole  breadth  of  her 
countenance,  and  a  leer  enough  to  turn  a  man  to  stone ;  on  the 
other  side  was  the  father  confessor,  a  sleek  friar,  jogging  the 
youth's  elbow,  and  pointing  to  the  gallows,  seen  in  perspective 
through  the  open  portal. 

The  story  goes,  that  after  long  laboring  in  mind,  between  the 
altar  and  the  halter,  the  love  of  life  prevailed,  and  the  youth 
resigned  himself  to  the  charms  of  Muckle-mouthed  Mag.  Con 
trary  to  all  the  probabilities  of  romance,  the  match  proved  a 
happy  one.  The  baron's  daughter,  if  not  beautiful,  was  a  most 
exemplary  wife ;  her  husband  was  never  troubled  with  any  of 
those  doubts  and  jealousies  which  sometimes  mar  the  hap 
piness  of  connubial  life,  and  was  made  the  father  of  a  fair 
and  undoubtedly  legitimate  line,  which  still  flourishes  on  the 
border. 

I  give  but  a  faint  outline  of  the  story  from  vague  recollection ; 
it  may,  perchance,  be  more  richly  related  elsewhere,  by  some 
one  who  may  retain  something  of  the  delightful  humor  with 
which  Scott  recounted  it. 

When  I  retired  for  the  night,  I  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
Bleep ;  the  idea  of  being  under  the  roof  of  Scott ;  of  being  on  the 


ABBOTSFORD.  25 

borders  of  the  Tweed,  in  the  very  centre  of  that  region  which 
had  for  some  time  past  been  the  favorite  scene  of  romantic 
fiction;  and  above  all,  the  recollections  of  the  ramble  I  had 
taken,  the  company  in  which  I  had  taken  it,  and  the  conversa 
tion  which  had  passed,  all  fermented  in  my  mind,  and  nearly 
drove  sleep  from  my  pillow. 


On  the  following  morning,  the  sun  darted  his  beams  from 
over  the  hills  through  the  low  lattice  window.  I  rose  at  an 
early  hour,  and  looked  out  between  the  branches  of  eglantine 
which  overhung  the  casement.  To  my  surprise  Scott  was  already 
up  and  forth,  seated  on  a  fragment  of  stone,  and  chatting  with 
the  workmen  employed  on  the  new  building.  I  had  supposed, 
after  the  time  he  had  wasted  upon  me  yesterday,  he  would  be 
closely  occupied  this  morning,  but  he  appeared  like  a  man  of 
leisure,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  bask  in  the  sunshine  and 
amuse  himself. 

I  soon  dressed  myself  and  joined  him.  He  talked  about  his 
proposed  plans  of  Abbotsf ord ;  happy  would  it  have  been  for 
him  could  he  have  contented  himself  with  his  delightful  little 
vine-covered  cottage,  and  the  simple,  yet  hearty  and  hospitable 
style,  in  which  he  lived  at  the  time  of  my  visit.  The  great 
pile  of  Abbotsf  ord,  with  the  huge  expense  it  entailed  upon  him, 
of  servants,  retainers,  guests,  and  baronial  style,  was  a  drain 
upon  his  purse,  a  tax  upon  his  exertions,  and  a  weight  upon 
his  mind,  that  finally  crushed  him. 

As  yet,  however,  all  was  in  embryo  and  perspective,  and 
Scott  pleased  himself  with  picturing  out  his  future  residence, 
as  he  would  one  of  the  fanciful  creations  of  his  own  romances. 
"  It  was  one  of  his  air  castles,"  he  said,  "  which  hd  was  reduc 
ing  to  solid  stone  and  mortar."  About  the  place  were  strewed 
various  morsels  from  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey,  which  wero 
to  be  incorporated  in  his  mansion.  He  had  already  constructed 
out  of  similar  materials  a  kind  of  Gothic  shrine  over  a  spring, 
and  had  surmounted  it  by  a  small  stone  cross. 

Among  the  relics  from  the  Abbey  which  lay  scattered  before 
us,  was  a  most  quaint  and  antique  little  lion,  either  of  red 
stone,  or  painted  red,  which  hit  my  fancy.  I  forgot  whose 
cognizance  it  was ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  delightful  obser 
vations  concerning  old  Melrose  to  which  it  accidentally  gave 
rise. 


26  ABBOTSFORD. 

The  Abbey  was  evidently  a  pile  that  called  up  all  Scott's 
poetic  and  romantic  feelings ;  and  one  to  which  he  was  enthu 
siastically  attached  by  the  most  fanciful  and  delightful  of  his 
early  associations.  He  spoke  of  it,  I  may  say,  with  affection, 
"There  is  no  telling,"  said  he,  "what  treasures  are  hid  in  that 
glorious  old  pile.  It  is  a  famous  place  for  antiquarian  plunder; 
there  are  such  rich  bits  ot  old  time  sculpture  for  the  architect, 
and  old  time  story  for  the  poet.  There  is  as  rare  picking  in  it 
as  a  Stilton  cheese,  and  in  the  same  taste — the  mouldier  the 
better." 

He  went  onto  mention  circumstances  of  "  mighty  import " 
connected  with  the  Abbey,  which  had  never  been  touched,  and 
which  had  even  escaped  the  researches  of  Johnny  Bower. 
The  heart  of  Eobert  Bruce,  the  hero  of  Scotland,  had  been 
buried  in  it.  He  dwelt  on  the  beautiful  story  of  Bruce's  pious 
and  chivalrous  request  hi  his  dying  hour,  that  his  heart  might 
be  carried  to  the  Holy  Land  and  placed  in  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  of  pilgrimage ;  and  of  the  loyal  expedi 
tion  of  Sir  James  Douglas  to  convey  the  glorious  relic.  Much 
might  be  made,  he  said,  out  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  James  in 
that  adventurous  age ;  of  his  fortunes  in  Spain,  and  his  death 
in  a  crusade  against  the  Moors ;  with  the  subsequent  fortunes 
of  the  heart  of  Robert  Bruce,  until  it  was  brought  back  to 
its  native  land,  and  enshrined  within  the  holy  walls  of  old 
Melrose. 

As  Scott  sat  on  a  stone  talking  in  this  way,  and  knocking 
with  his  staff  against  the  little  red  lion  which  lay  prostrate 
before  him,  his  gray  eyes  twinkled  beneath  his  shagged  eye 
brows  ;  scenes,  images,  incidents,  kept  breaking  upon  his  mind 
as  he  proceeded,  mingled  with  touches  of  the  mysterious  and 
supernatural  as  connected  with  the  heart  of  Bruce.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  poem  or  romance  were  breaking  vaguely  on  his  imagina 
tion.  That  he  subsequently  contemplated  something  of  the 
kind,  as  connected  with  this  subject,  and  with  his  favorite  ruin 
of  Melrose,  is  evident  from  his  introduction  to  "The  Monas 
tery  ;"  and  it  is  a  pity  that  he  never  succeeded  in  following  out 
these  shadowy,  but  enthusiastic  conceptions. 

A  summons  to  breakfast  broke  off  our  conversation,  when  1 
begged  to  recommend  to  Scott's  attention  my  friend  the  little 
red  lion,  who  had  led  to  such  an  interesting  topic,  and  hoped 
he  might  receive  some  niche  or  station  in  the  future  castle, 
worthy  of  his  evident  antiquity  and  apparent  dignity.  Scott 
assured  me,  with  comic  gravity,  that  the  valiant  little  lion 


ABBOTSFORD.  27 

should  be  most  honorably  entertained ;  I  hope,  therefore,  that 
he  still  flourishes  at  Abbotsford. 

Before  dismissing  the  theme  of  the  relics  from  the  Abbey,  1 
will  mention  another,  illustrative  of  Scott's  varied  humors. 
This  was  a  human  skull,  which  had  probably  belonged  of  yore 
to  one  of  those  jovial  friars,  so  honorably  mentioned  in  the  old 
border  ballad : 

"  O  the  monks  of  Melrose  made  gude  kale 

On  Fridays,  when  they  fasted; 
They  wanted  neither  beef  nor  ale, 
As  long  as  their  neighbors  lasted.* 

This  skull  he  had  caused  to  be  cleaned  and  varnished,  and 
placed  it  on  a  chest  of  drawers  in  his  chamber,  immediately 
opposite  his  bed ;  where  I  have  seen  it,  grinning  most  dismally. 
It  was  an  object  of  great  awe  and  horror  to  the  superstitious 
housemaids ;  and  Scott  used  to  amuse  himself  with  their  appre 
hensions.  Sometimes,  in  changing  his  dress,  he  would  leave 
his  neck-cloth  coiled  round  it  like  a  turban,  and  none  of  the 
"lasses"  dared  to  remove  it.  It  was  a  matter  of  great  wonder 
and  speculation  among  them  that  the  laird  should  have  such 
an  "  awsome  fancy  for  an  auld  girning  skull." 

At  breakfast  that  morning  Scott  gave  an  amusing  account  of 
a  little  Highlander  called  Campbell  of  the  North,  who  had  a 
lawsuit  of  many  years'  standing  with  a  nobleman  in  his  neigh 
borhood  about  the  boundaries  of  their  estates.  It  was  the  lead 
ing  object  of  the  little  man's  life ;  the  running  theme  of  all  his 
conversations ;  he  used  to  detail  all  the  circumstances  at  full 
length  to  everybody  he  met,  and,  to  aid  him  in  his  description 
of  the  premises,  and  make  his  story  "  mair  preceese,"  he  had  a 
great  map  made  of  his  estate,  a  huge  roll  several  feet  long, 
which  he  used  to  carry  about  on  his  shoulder.  Campbell  was 
a  long-bodied,  but  short  and  bandy-legged  little  man,  always 
clad  in  the  Highland  garb ;  and  as  he  went  about  with  this 
great  rell  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  little  legs  curving  like  a  pair 
of  parentheses  below  his  kilt,  he  was  an  odd  figure  to  behold. 
He  was  like  little  David  shouldering  the  spear  of  Goliath, 
which  was  "  like  unto  a  weaver's  beam." 

Whenever  sheep-shearing  was  over,  Campbell  used  to  set 
out  for  Edinburgh  to  attend  to  his  lawsuit.  At  the  inns  he 
paid  double  for  all  his  meals  and  his  night's  lodgings,  telling 
the  landlords  to  keep  it  in  mind  until  his  return,  so  that  he 
might  come  back  that  way  at  free  cost ;  for  he  knew,  he  said, 


28  ABBOTSFORD. 

that  he  would  spend  all  his  money  among  the  lawyers  at  Edin 
burgh,  so  he  thought  it  best  to  secure  a  retreat  home  again. 

On  one  of  his  visits  he  called  upon  his  lawyer,  but  was  told 
he  was  not  at  home,  but  his  lady  was.  "It's  just  the  same 
thing,"  said  little  Campbell.  On  being  shown  into  the  parlor, 
he  unrolled  his  map,  stated  his  case  at  full  length,  and,  having 
gone  through  with  his  story,  gave  her  the  customary  fee.  Sho 
would  have  declined  it,  but  he  insisted  on  her  taking  it.  "I 
ha'  had  just  as  much  pleasure,"  said  he,  "in  telling  the  whole 
tale  to  you,  as  I  should  have  had  in  telling  it  to  your  husband, 
and  I  believe  full  as  much  profit." 

The  last  time  he  saw  Scott,  he  told  him  he  believed  he  and 
the  laird  were  near  a  settlement,  as  they  agreed  to  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  boundary.  If  I  recollect  right,  Scott  added  that 
he  advised  the  little  man  to  consign  his  cause  and  his  map  to 
the  care  of  "Slow  Willie  Mowbray,"  of  tedious  memory,  an 
Edinburgh  worthy,  much  employed  by  the  country  people,  for 
he  tired  out  everybody  hi  office  by  repeated  visits  and  drawling, 
endless  prolixity,  and  gained  every  suit  by  dint  of  boring. 

These  little  stories  and  anecdotes,  which  abounded  in  Scott's 
conversation,  rose  naturally  out  of  the  subject,  and  were  per- 
tectly  unforced;  though,  in  thus  relating  them  in  a  detached 
way,  without  the  observations  or  circumstances  which  led  to 
them,  and  which  have  passed  from  my  recollection,  they  want 
their  setting  to  give  them  proper  relief.  They  will  serve,  how 
ever,  to  show  the  natural  play  of  his  mind,  in  its  familiar 
moods,  and  its  fecundity  in  graphic  and  characteristic  detail. 

His  daughter  Sophia  and  his  son  Charles  were  those  of  his 
family  who  seemed  most  to  feel  and  understand  his  humors, 
and  to  take  delight  in  his  conversation.  Mrs.  Scott  did  not 
always  pay  the  same  attention,  and  would  now  and  then  make 

casual  remark  which  would  operate  a  little  like  a  damper. 
Thus,  one  morning  at  breakfast,  when  Dominie  Thomson,  the 
tutor,  was  present,  Scott  was  going  on  with  great  glee  to  relate 
an  anecdote  of  the  laird  of  Macnab,  "who,  poor  fellow,"  pre 
mised  he,  "is  dead  and  gone—"  "Why,  Mr.  Scott,"  exclaimed 
the  good  lady,  "  M.«tcnab's  not  dead,  is  he?"  "Faith,  my  dear," 
replied  Scott,  with  humorous  gravity,  "if  he's  not  dead  they've 
done  him  great  injustice— for  they've  buried  him." 

The  joke  passed  harmless  and  unnoticed  by  Mrs.  Scott,  but 
bit  the  poor  Dominie  just  as  he  had  raised  a  cup  of  tea  to  his 
lips,  causing  a  burst  of  laughter  which  sent  half  of  the  contents 
about  the  table. 


ABBOTSFORD.  29 

After  breakfast,  Scott  was  occupied  for  some  time  correcting 
proof-sheets  which  he  had  received  by  the  mail.  The  novel  of 
Rob  Roy,  as  I  have  already  observed,  was  at  that  time  in  the 
press,  and  I  supposed  them  to  be  the  proof-sheets  of  that  work. 
The  authorship  of  the  Waverley  novels  was  still  a  matter  of 
conjecture  and  uncertainty;  though  few  doubted  their  being 
principally  written  by  Scott.  One  proof  to  me  of  his  being  the 
author,  was  that  he  never  adverted  to  them.  A  man  so  fond 
of  anything  Scottish,  and  anything  relating  to  national  history 
or  local  legend,  could  not  have  been  mute  respecting  such 
productions,  had  they  been  written  by  another.  He  was  fond 
of  quoting  the  works  of  his  contemporaries ;  he  was  continually 
reciting  scraps  of  border  songs,  or  relating  anecdotes  of  border 
story.  With  respect  to  his  own  poems,  and  their  merits,  how 
ever,  he  was  mute,  and  while  with  him  I  observed  a  scrupulous 
silence  on  the  subject. 

I  may  here  mention  a  singular  fact,  of  which  I  was  not 
aware  at  the  time,  that  Scott  was  very  reserved  with  his  chil 
dren  respecting  his  own  writings,  and  was  even  disinclined  to 
their  reading  his  romantic  poems.  I  learnt  this,  some  time 
after,  from  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  adverting  to  a 
set  of  the  American  miniature  edition  of  his  poems,  which,  on 
my  return  to  England,  I  forwarded  to  one  of  the  young  ladies. 
"In  my  hurry,"  writes  he,  "I  have  not  thanked  you,  in 
Sophia's  name,  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her  with 
the  American  volumes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  add  my 
own,  since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much  more  of 
papa's  folly  than  she  would  otherwise  have  learned ;  for  I  have 
taken  special  care  they  should  never  see  any  of  these  things 
during  their  earlier  years." 

To  return  to  the  thread  of  my  narrative.  When  Scott  had 
got  through  his  brief  literary  occupation,  we  set  out  on  a  ram 
ble.  The  young  ladies  started  to  accompany  us,  but  they  had 
not  gone  far,  when  they  met  a  poor  old  laborer  and  his  dis 
tressed  family,  and  turned  back  to  take  them  to  the  house, 
and  relieve  them. 

On  passing  the  bounds  of  Abbotsford,  we  came  upon  a 
bleak-looking  farm,  with  a  forlorn,  crazy  old  manse,  or  farm 
house,  standing  in  naked  desolation.  This,  however,  Scott 
told  me,  was  an  ancient  hereditary  property  called  Lauckend. 
about  as  valuable  as  the  patrimonial  estate  of  Don  Quixote, 
and  which,  in  like  manner,  conferred  an  hereditary  dignity 
upon  its  proprietor,  who  was  a  laird,  and,  though  poor  as  a  rat, 


30  ABBOTSFORD. 

prided  himself  upon  his  ancient  blood,  and  the  standing  of  hia 
house.  He  was  accordingly  called  Lauckend,  according  to  the 
Scottish  custom  of  naming  a  man  after  his  family  estate,  but 
he  was  more  generally  known  through  the  country  round  by 
the  name  of  Lauckie  Long  Legs,  from  the  length  of  his  limbs. 
While  Scott  was  giving  this  account  of  him,  we  saw  him  at  a 
distance  striding  along  one  of  his  fields,  with  his  plaid  flutter 
ing  about  him,  and  he  seemed  well  to  deserve  his  appellation, 
for  he  looked  all  legs  and  tartan. 

Lauckie  knew  nothing  of  the  world  beyond  his  neighborhood. 
Scott  told  me  that  on  returning  to  Abbotsford  from  his  visit  to 
France,  immediately  after  the  war,  he  was  called  on  by  his 
neighbors  generally  to  inquire  after  foreign  parts.  Among 
the  number  came  Lauckie  Long  Legs  and  an  old  brother  as 
ignorant  as  himself.  They  had  many  inquiries  to  make  about 
the  French,  whom  they  seemed  to  consider  some  remote  and 
semi-barbarous  horde — "  And  what  like  are  thae  barbarians  in 
their  own  country?"  said  Lauckie,  "  can  they  write? — can  they 
cipher?"  He  was  quite  astonished  to  learn  that  they  were 
nearly  as  much  advanced  in  civilization  as  the  gude  folks  of 
Abbotsford. 

After  living  for  a  long  time  in  single  blessedness,  Lauckie  all 
at  once,  and  not  long  before  my  visit  to  the  neighborhood,  took 
it  into  his  head  to  get  married.  The  neighbors  were  all  sur 
prised  ;  but  the  family  connection,  who  were  as  proud  as  they 
were  poor,  were  grievously  scandalized,  for  they  thought  the 
young  woman  on  whom  he  had  set  his  mind  quite  beneath  him. 
It  was  in  vain,  however,  that  they  remonstrated  on  the  misal 
liance  he  was  about  to  make ;  he  was  not  to  be  swayed  from 
his  determination.  Arraying  himself  in  his  best,  and  saddling 
a  gaunt  steed  that  might  have  rivalled  Eosinante,  and  placing 
a  pillion  behind  his  saddle,  he  departed  to  wed  and  bring  home 
the  humble  lassie  who  was  to  be  made  mistress  of  the  venera 
ble  hovel  of  Lauckend,  and  who  lived  in  a  village  on  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  Tweed. 

A  small  event  of  the  kind  makes  a  great  stir  in  a  little  quiet 
country  neighborhood.  The  word  soon  circulated  through  the 
village  of  Melrose,  and  the  cottages  in  its  vicinity,  that  Lauckie 
Long  Legs  had  gone  over  the  Tweed  to  fetch  homo  his  bride. 
All  the  good  folks  assembled  at  the  bridge  to  await  his  return. 
Lauckie,  however,  disappointed  them ;  for  he  crossed  the  river 
at  a  distant  ford,  and  conveyed  his  bride  safe  to  his  mansion 
without  being  perceived. 


ABBOTSFORD.  31 

Let;  me  step  forward  in  the  course  of  events,  and  relate  the 
fate  of  poor  Lauckie,  as  it  was  communicated  to  me  a  year  or 
two  afterward  in  letter  by  Scott.  From  the  time  of  his  mar 
riage  he  had  no  longer  any  peace,  owing  to  the  constant  inter 
meddling  of  his  relations,  who  would  not  permit  him  to  be 
happy  in  bis  own  way,  but  endeavored  to  set  him  at  variance 
with  his  wife.  Lauckie  refused  to  credit  any  of  their  stories  to 
her  disadvantage ;  but  the  incessant  warfare  he  had  to  wage  in 
defence  of  her  good  name,  wore  out  both  flesh  and  spirit.  His 
last  conflict  was  with  his  own  brothers,  in  front  of  his  paternal 
mansion.  A  furious  scolding  match  took  place  between  them ; 
Lauckie  made  a  vehement  profession  of  faith  in  favor  of  her 
immaculate  honesty,  and  then  fell  dead  at  the  threshold  of  his 
own  door.  His  person,  his  character,  his  name,  his  story,  and 
his  fate,  entitled  him  to  be  immortalized  in  one  of  Scott's 
novels,  and  I  looked  to  recognize  him  in  some  of  the  succeed 
ing  works  from  his  pen ;  but  I  looked  in  vain. 


After  passing  by  the  domains  of  honest  Lauckie,  Scott 
pointed  out,  at  a  distance,  the  Eildon  stone.  There  in  ancient 
days  stood  the  Eildon  tree,  beneath  which  Thomas  the  Rhymer, 
according  to  popular  tradition,  dealt  forth  his  prophecies,  some 
of  which  still  exist  in  antiquated  ballads. 

Here  we  turned  up  a  little  glen  with  a  small  burn  or  brook 
whimpering  and  dashing  along  it,  making  an  occasional  water 
fall,  and  overhung  in  some  places  with  mountain  ash  and 
weeping  birch.  We  are  now,  said  Scott,  treading  classic,  or 
rather  fairy  ground.  This  is  the  haunted  glen  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  where  he  met  with  the  queen  of  fairy  land,  and  this 
the  bogle  burn,  or  goblin  brook,  along  which  she  rode  on  her 
dapple-gray  palfrey,  with  silver  bells  ringing  at  the  bridle. 

"Here,"  said  he,  pausing,  "is  Huntley  Bank,  on  which 
Thomas  the  Rhymer  lay  musing  and  sleeping  when  he  saw, 
or  dreamt  he  saw,  the  queen  of  Elfland: 

"  '  True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank; 

A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e; 
And  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright, 
Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  tree. 

"  '  Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 

Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne; 
At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane 
Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine."' 


32  ABBOTSFORD. 

Here  Scott  repeated  several  of  the  stanzas  ana  recounted  the 
circumstance  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer's  interview  with  the 
fairy,  and  his  being  transported  by  her  to  fairy  land — 

"  And  til  seven  years  were  gone  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen." 

"It's  a  fine  old  story,"  said  he,  "and  might  be  wrought  up  into 
a  capital  tale." 

Scott  continued  on,  leading  the  way  as  usual,  and  limping  up 
the  wizard  glen,  talking  as  he  went,  but,  as  his  back  was 
toward  me,  I  could  only  hear  the  deep  growling  tones  of  his 
voice,  like  the  low  breathing  of  an  organ,  without  distin- 
mrishing  the  words,  until  pausing,  and  turning  his  face  toward 
me,  I  found  he  was  reciting  some  scrap  of  border  minstrelsy 
about  Thomas  the  Rhymer.  This  was  continually  the  case  in  my 
ramblings  with  him  about  this  storied  neighborhood.  His 
mind  was  fraught  with  the  traditionary  fictions  connected 
with  every  object  around  him,  and  he  would  breathe  it  forth  as 
he  went,  apparently  as  much  for  his  own  gratification  as  for 
that  of  his  companion. 

"  Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along, 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song." 

His  voice  was  deep  and  sonorous,  he  spoke  with  a  Scottish  ac 
cent,  and  with  somewhat  of  the  Northumbrian  "burr," 
which,  to  my  mind,  gave  a  Doric  strength  and  simplicity  to 
his  elocution.  His  recitation  of  poetry  was,  at  times,  magnifi 
cent. 

I  think  it  was  in  the  course  of  this  ramble  that  my  friend 
Hamlet,  the  black  greyhound,  got  into  a  bad  scrape.  The  dogs 
were  beating  about  the  glens  and  fields  as  usual,  and  had  been 
for  some  time  out  of  sight,  when  we  heard  a  barking  at  some 
distance  to  the  left.  Shortly  after  we  saw  some  sheep  scamper 
ing  on  the  hills,  with  the  dogs  after  them.  Scott  applied  to 
his  lips  the  ivory  whistle,  always  hanging  at  his  button-hole, 
and  soon  called  in  the  culprits,  excepting  Hamlet.  Hastening 
up  a  bank  which  commanded  a  view  along  a  fold  or  hollow  of 
the  hills,  we  beheld  the  sable  prince  of  Denmark  standing  by 
the  bleeding  body  of  a  sheep.  The  carcass  was  still  warm,  the 
throat  bore  marks  of  the  fatal  grip,  and  Hamlet's  muzzle  was 
stained  with  blood.  Never  was  culprit  more  completely  caught 
in  flagrante  delicto.  I  supposed  the  doom  of  poor  Hamlet  to  be 
sealed ;  for  no  higher  offence  can  be  committed  by  a  dog  in  a 
country  abounding  with  sheep-walks.  Scott,  however,  had  a 


ABBOTSFORD.  33 

greater  value  for  his  dogs  than  for  his  sheep.  They  were  his 
companions  and  friends.  Hamlet,  too,  though  an  irregular, 
impertinent  kind  of  youngster,  was  evidently  a  favorite.  He 
would  not  for  some  time  believe  it  could  be  he  who  had  killed 
the  sheep.  It  must  have  been  some  cur  of  the  neighborhood, 
that  had  made  off  on  our  approach  and  left  poor  Hamlet  in  the 
lurch.  Proofs,  however,  were  too  strong,  and  Hamlet  was  gen 
erally  condemned.  "  Well,  well,"  said  Scott,  "  it's  partly  my 
own  fault.  I  have  given  up  coursing  for  some  time  past,  and 
the  poor  dog  has  had  no  chance  after  game  to  take  the  fire  edge 
off  of  him.  If  he  was  put  after  a  hare  occasionally  he  never 
would  meddle  with  sheep." 

I  understood,  afterward,  that  Scott  actually  got  a  pony,  and 
went  out  now  and  then  coursing  with  Hamlet,  who,  in  conse 
quence,  showed  no  further  inclination  for  mutton. 


A  further  stroll  among  the  hills  brought  us  to  what  Scott 
pronounced  the  remains  of  a  Roman  camp,  and  as  we  sat  upon 
a  hillock  which  had  once  formed  a  part  of  the  ramparts,  he 
pointed  out  the  traces  of  the  lines  and  bulwarks,  and  the  prae- 
torium,  and  showed  a  knowledge  of  castramatation  that  would 
not  have  disgraced  the  antiquarian  Oldbuck  himself.  Indeed, 
various  circumstances  that  I  observed  about  Scott  during  my 
visit,  concurred  to  persuade  me  that  many  of  the  antiquarian 
humors  of  Monkbarns  were  taken  from  his  own  richly  com 
pounded  character,  and  that  some  of  the  scenes  and  personages 
of  that  admirable  novel  were  furnished  by  his  immediate 
neighborhood. 

He  gave  me  several  anecdotes  of  a  noted  pauper  named  An 
drew  Gemmells,  or  Gammel,  as  it  was  pronounced,  who  had 
once  nourished  on  the  banks  of  Galla  Water,  immediately  op 
posite  Abbotsford,  and  whom  he  had  seen  and  talked  and 
joked  with  when  a  boy  ;  and  I  instantly  recognized  the  likeness 
of  that  mirror  of  philosophic  vagabonds  and  Nestor  of  beggars, 
Edie  Ochiltree.  I  was  on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  name 
and  recognizing  the  portrait,  when  I  recollected  the  incognito 
observed  by  Scott  with  respect  to  his  novels,  and  checked  my 
self  ;  but  it  was  one  among  many  things  that  tended  to  con 
vince  me  of  his  authorship. 

His  picture  of  Andrew  Gemmells  exactly  accorded  with  that 
of  Edie  as  to  his  height,  carriage,  and  soldier-like  air,  as  well  as 


34  ABBOTSFOBD. 

his  arch  and  sarcastic  humor.  HJB  home,  ii  home  he  had, 
was  at  Galashiels;  but  he  went  "  daundering"  ahout  the  coun 
try,  along  the  green  shar/s  and  beside  the  burns,  and  was  a 
kind  of  walking  chronicle  throughout  the  valleys  of  the  Tweed, 
the  Ettrick,  and  the  Yarrow ;  carrying  the  gossip  from  house 
to  house,  commenting  on  the  inhabitants  and  their  concerns, 
and  never  hesitating  to  give  them  a  dry  rub  as  to  any  of  their 
faults  or  follies. 

A  shrewd  beggar  like  Andrew  Gemmells,  Scott  added,  who 
could  sing  the  old  Scotch  airs,  tell  stories  and  traditions,  and 
gossip  away  the  long  winter  evenings,  was  by  no  means  an  un 
welcome  visitor  at  a  lonely  manse  or  cottage.  The  children 
would  run  to  welcome  him,  and  place  his  stool  in  a  warm 
corner  of  the  ingle  nook,  and  the  old  folks  would  receive  him  as 
a  privileged  guest. 

As  to  Andrew,  he  looked  upon  them  all  as  a  parson  does 
upon  his  parishioners,  and  considered  the  alms  he  received  as 
much  his  due  as  the  other  does  his  tithes.  "  I  rather  think," 
added  Scott,  "  Andrew  considered  himself  more  of  a  gentleman 
than  those  who  toiled  for  a  living,  and  that  he  secretly  looked 
down  upon  the  painstaking  peasants  that  fed  and  sheltered 
him." 

He  had  derived  his  aristocratical  notions  in  some  degree  from 
being  admitted  occasionally  to  a  precarious  sociability  with 
some  of  the  small  country  gentry,  who  were  sometimes  in  want 
of  company  to  help  while  away  the  time.  With  these  Andrew 
would  now  and  then  play  at  cards  and  dice,  and  he  never  lacked 
"  siller  in  pouch"  to  stake  on  a  game,  which  he  did  with  a  per 
fect  air  of  a  man  to  whom  money  was  a  matter  of  little  moment, 
and  no  one  could  lose  his  money  with  more  gentlemanlike 
coolness. 

Among  those  who  occasionally  admitted  him  to  this  f  amiliar- 
ity,  was  old  John  Scott  of  Galla,  a  man  of  family,  who  inhab 
ited  his  paternal  mansion  of  Torwoodlee.  Some  distinction  of 
rank,  however,  was  still  kept  up.  The  laird  sat  on  the  inside 
of  the  window  and  the  beggar  on  the  outside,  and  they  played 
cards  on  the  sill. 

Andrew  now  and  then  told  the  laird  a  piece  of  his  mind  very 
freely ;  especially  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  sold  some  of 
his  paternal  lands  to  build  himself  a  larger  house  with  the  pro 
ceeds.  The  speech  of  honest  Andrew  smacks  of  the  shrewdness 
of  Edie  Ochiltree. 

"  It's  a'  varra  weel— it's  a'  varra  weel,  Torwoodlee,"  said  he; 


ABEOTSFOKb.  35 

"  but  who  would  ha'  thought  that  your  father's  son  would  ha' 
sold  two  gude  estates  to  build  a  shaw's  (cuckoo's)  nest  on  the 
side  of  a  hill?" 


That  day  there  was  an  arrival  at  Abbotsf ord  of  two  English 
tourists;  one  a  gentleman  of  fortune  and  landed  estate,  the 
other  a  young  clergyman  whom  he  appeared  to  have  under  his 
patronage,  and  to  have  brought  with  him  as  a  travelling  com 
panion. 

The  patron  was  one  of  those  well-bred,  commonplace  gentle 
men  with  which  England  is  overrun.  He  had  great  deference 
for  Scott,  and  endeavored  to  acquit  himself  learnedly  in  his 
company,  aiming  continually  at  abstract  disquisitions,  for 
which  Scott  had  little  relish.  The  conversation  of  the  latter, 
as  usual,  was  studded  with  anecdotes  and  stories,  some  of  them 
of  great  pith  and  humor ;  the  well-bred  gentleman  was  either 
too  dull  to  feel  their  point,  or  too  decorous  to  indulge  in  hearty 
merriment;  the  honest  parson,  on  the  contrary,  who  was  not 
too  refined  to  be  happy,  laughed  loud  and  long  at  every  joke, 
and  enjoyed  them  with  the  zest  of  a  man  who  has  more  merri 
ment  in  his  heart  than  coin  in  his  pocket. 

After  they  were  gone,  some  comments  were  made  upon  their 
different  deportments.  Scott  spoke  very  respectfully  of  the 
good  breeding  and  measured  manners  of  the  man  of  wealth, 
but  with  a  kindlier  feeling  of  the  honest  parson,  and  the  homely 
but  hearty  enjoyment  with  which  he  relished  every  pleasantry. 
"  I  doubt,"  said  he,  "  whether  the  parson's  lot  in  life  is  not  the 
best ;  if  he  cannot  command  as  many  of  the  good  things  of  this 
world  by  his  own  purse  as  his  patron  can,  he  beats  him  all  hol 
low  in  his  enjoyment  of  them  when  set  before  him  by  others. 
Upon  the  whole, "  added  he,  "I  rather  think  I  prefer  the  honest 
parson's  good  humor  to  his  patron's  good  breeding ;  I  have  a 
great  regard  for  a  hearty  laugher. " 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  great  influx  of  English  travellers 
which  of  late  years  had  inundated  Scotland;  and  doubted 
whether  they  had  not  injured  the  old-fashioned  Scottish  char 
acter.  "  Formerly  they  came  here  occasionally  as  sportsmen," 
said  he,  "  to  shoot  moor  game,  without  any  idea  of  looking  at 
scenery ;  and  they  moved  about  the  country  in  hardy  simple 
style,  coping  with  the  country  people  in  their  own  way ;  but 
now  they  come  rolling  about  in  their  equipages,  to  see  ruins, 
and  spend  money,  and  their  lavish  extravagance  has  played 


36  ABBOTSFORD. 

the  vengeance  with  the  common  people.  It  has  made  them 
rapacious  in  their  dealings  with  strangers,  greedy  after  money, 
and  extortionate  in  their  demands  for  the  most  trivial  ser 
vices.  Formerly,"  continued  he,  "  the  poorer  classes  of  our 
people  were,  comparatively,  disinterested ;  they  offered  their 
services  gratuitously,  in  promoting  the  amusement,  or  aiding 
the  curiosity  of  strangers,  and  were  gratified  by  the  smallest 
compensation ;  but  now  they  make  a  trade  of  showing  rocks 
and  ruins,  and  are  as  greedy  as  Italian  cicerones.  They  look 
upon  the  English  as  so  many  walking  money-bags  ;  the  more 
they  are  shaken  and  poked,  the  more  they  will  leave  behind 
them." 

I  told  him  that  he  had  a  great  deal  to  answer  for  on  that 
head,  since  it  was  the  romantic  associations  he  had  thrown  by 
his  writings  over  so  many  out-of-the-way  places  in  Scotland, 
that  had  brought  in  the  influx  of  curious  travellers. 

Scott  laughed,  and  said  he  believed  I  might  be  in  some  meas 
ure  in  the  right,  as  he  recollected  a  circumstance  in  point. 
Being  one  time  at  Glenross,  an  old  woman  who  kept  a  small 
inn,  which  had  but  little  custom,  was  uncommonly  officious  in 
her  attendance  upon  him,  and  absolutely  incommoded  him  with 
her  civilities.  The  secret  at  length  came  out.  As  he  was  about 
to  depart,  she  addressed  him  with  many  curtsies,  and  said  she 
understood  he  was  the  gentleman  that  had  written  a  bonny 
book  about  Loch  Katrine.  She  begged  him  to  write  a  little 
about  their  lake  also,  for  she  understood  his  book  had  done  the 
inn  at  Loch  Katrine  a  muckle  deal  of  good. 

On  the  following  day  I  made  an  excursion  with  Scott  and  the 
young  ladies  to  Dryburgh  Abbey.  We  went  in  an  open  car 
riage,  drawn  by  two  sleek  old  black  horses,  for  which  Scott 
seemed  to  have  an  affection,  as  he  had  for  every  dumb  animal 
that  belonged  to  him.  Our  road  lay  through  a  variety  of 
scenes,  rich  in  poetical  and  historical  associations,  about  most 
of  which  Scott  had  something  to  relate.  In  one  part  of  the 
drive,  he  pointed  to  an  old  border  keep,  or  fortress,  on  the 
summit  of  a  naked  hill,  several  miles  off,  which  he  called 
Smallholm  Tower,  and  a  rocky  knoll  on  which  it  stood,  the 
"  Sandy  Knowe  crags."  It  was  a  place,  he  said,  peculiarly 
dear  to  him,  from  the  recollections  of  childhood.  His  father 
had  lived  there  in  the  old  Smallholm  Grange,  or  farm-house  ; 
and  he  had  been  sent  there,  when  but  two  years  old,  on  ac 
count  of  his  lameness,  that  he  might  have  the  benefit  of  the 
pure  air  of  the  hills,  and  be  und^r  the  care  of  his  grand 
mother  and  aunts. 


ABBOTSFORD.  37 

In  the  introduction  of  one  of  the  cantos  of  Marmion,  he  has 
depicted  his  grandfather,  and  the  fireside  of  the  farm-house; 
and  has  given  an  amusing  picture  of  himself  in  his  boyish 
years: 

"  Still  with  vain  fondness  could  I  trace 
Anew  each  kind  familiar  face, 
That  brightened  at  our  evening  fire; 
From  the  thatched  mansion's  gray-haired  sire, 
Wise  without  learning,  plain  and  good, 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear  and  keen, 
Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been  ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought, 
Content  with  equity  unbought; 
To  him  the  venerable  priest, 
Our  fre^'ient  and  familiar  guest. 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint; 
Alas !  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke; 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandame's  child; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  carest." 

It  was,  he  said,  during  his  residence  at  SmaUhohn  crags  that 
he  first  imbibed  his  passion  for  legendary  tales,  border  tradi 
tions,  and  old  national  songs  and  ballads.  His  grandmother 
and  aunts  were  well  versed  in  that  kind  of  lore,  so  current  in 
Scottish  country  life.  They  used  to  recount  them  in  long, 
gloomy  winter  days,  and  about  the  ingle  nook  at  night,  in  con 
clave  with  their  gossip  visitors;  and  little  Walter  would  sit 
and  listen  with  greedy  ear ;  thus  taking  into  his  infant  mind 
the  seeds  of  many  a  splendid  fiction. 

There  was  an  old  shepherd,  he  said,  in  the  service  of  the 
family,  who  used  to  sit  under  the  sunny  wall,  and  tell  marvel 
lous  stories,  and  recite  old  time  ballads,  as  he  knitted  stock 
ing.  Scott  used  to  be  wheeled  out  in  his  chair,  in  fine  wea 
ther,  and  would  sit  beside  the  old  man,  and  listen  to  him  for 
hours. 

The  situation  of  Sandy  Enowe  was  favorable  both  for  story 
teller  and  listener.  It  commanded  a  wide  view  over  all  the 
border  country,  with  its  feudal  to  were,  its  haunted  glens,  and 
wizard  streams.  As  the  old  shepherd  told  his  tales,  he  could 
point  out  the  very  scene  of  action.  Thus,  before  Scott  could 
walk,  he  was  made  familiar  with  the  scenes  of  his  future  sto 
ries  ;  they  were  all  seen  as  thrcmgh  a  magic  medium,  and  took 
that  tinge  of  romance,  which  they  ever  after  retained  in  his 


38  ABBOTSFORD. 

imagination.  From  the  height  of  Sandy  Knowe,  he  may  be 
said  to  have  had  the  first  look-out  upon  the  promised  land  of 
his  future  glory. 

On  referring  to  Scott's  works,  I  find  many  of  the  circum 
stances  related  in  this  conversation,  about  the  old  tower,  and 
the  boyish  scenes  connected  with  it,  recorded  in  the  introduc 
tion  to  Marmion,  already  cited.  This  was  frequently  the  case 
with  Scott;  incidents  and  feelings  that  had  appeared  in  his 
writings,  were  apt  to  be  mingled  up  in  his  conversation,  for 
they  bad  been  taken  from  what  he  had  witnessed  and  felt  in 
real  life,  and  were  connected  with  those  scenes  among  which 
he  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  his  being.  I  make  no  scruple  at 
quoting  the  passage  relative  to  the  tower,  though  it  repeats 
much  of  th#  foregone  imagery,  and  with  vastly  superior  effect: 


Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 

Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child, 

Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 

Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time  ; 

And  feelings  roused  in  life's  first  day, 

Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 

Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower. 

Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour, 

Though  no  broad  river  swept  along 

To  claim  perchance  heroic  song ; 

Though  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale 

To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale ; 

Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 

Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 

Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 

By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 

It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild, 

Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled; 

But  ever  and  anon  between 

Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green; 

And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 

Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 

And  honey-suckle  loved  to  crawl 

Up  the  low  crag  and  ruined  wall. 

I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 

The  sun  in  all  his  round  surveyed ; 

And  etill  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 

The  mightiest  work  of  human  power; 

And  marvell'd  as  the  aged  hind 

With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind, 

Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force. 

Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their  horse 

Their  southern  rapine  to  renew, 

Far  in  the  distant  Cheviot's  blue, 

And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 

With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl — 


A&BOTSFORD.  89 

Methought  that  still,  with  tramp  and  clang 

The  gate-way's  broken  arches  rang; 

Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 

Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars. 

And  ever  by  the  winter  hearth, 

Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 

Of  lovers'  slights,  of  ladies'  charms, 

Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms; 

Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old, 

By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold; 

Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 

When  pouring  from  the  Highland  height, 

The  Scottish  clans,  in  headlong  sway, 

Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 

While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor, 

Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er. 

Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid, 

The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed; 

And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 

And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before." 

Scott  eyed  the  distant  height  of  Sandy  Knowe  with  an  ear 
nest  gaze  as  we  rode  along,  and  said  he  had  often  thought  of 
buying  the  place,  repairing  the  old  tower,  and  making  it  his 
residence.  He  has  in  some  measure,  however,  paid  off  his 
early  debt  of  gratitude,  in  clothing  it  with  poetic  and  romantic 
associations",  by  his  tale  of  "  The  Eve  of  St.  John."  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  those  who  actually  possess  so  interesting  a  monu 
ment  of  Scott's  early  days,  will  preserve  it  from  further  dilapi 
dation. 

Not  far  from  Sandy  Knowe,  Scott  pointed  out  another  old 
border  hold,  standing  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  which  had  been 
a  kind  of  enchanted  castle  to  him  in  his  boyhood.  It  was  the 
tower  of  Bemerside,  the  baronial  residence  of  the  Haigs,  or  De 
Hagas,  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  the  border.  "There  had 
seemed  to  him,"  he  said,  "almost  a  wizard  spell  hanging  over 
it,  in  consequence  of  a  prophecy  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  in 
which,  in  his  young  days,  he  most  potently  believed:" 

"  Betide,  betide,  whate'er  betide, 
Haig  shall  be  Haig  of  Bemerside." 

Scott  added  some  particulars  which  showed  that,  in  the  pre 
sent  instance,  the  venerable  Thomas  had  not  proved  a  false 
prophet,  for  it  was  a  noted  fact  that,  amid  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  the  border ;  through  all  the  feuds,  and  forays,  and 
sackings,  and  burnings,  which  had  reduced  most  of  the  castles 
to  rums,  and  the  proud  families  that  once  possessed  them  to 


40  ABBOTSFORD. 

poverty,  the  tower  of  Bemerside  still  remained  unscathed,  and 
was  still  the  stronghold  of  the  ancient  family  of  Haig. 

Prophecies,  however,  often  insure  their  own  fulfilment.  It 
is  very  probable  that  the  prediction  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer 
has  linked  the  Haigs  to  their  tower,  as  their  rock  of  safety,  and 
has  induced  them  to  clingtoitalmostsuperstitiously,  through 
hardships  and  inconveniences  that  would,  otherwise,  have 
caused  its  abandonment. 

I  afterwards  saw,  at  Dryburgh  Abbey,  the  burying  place  of 
this  predestinated  and  tenacious  family,  the  inscription  of 
which  showed  the  value  they  set  upon  their  antiquity  : 

Locus  Sepulturse, 
Antiquessimae  Families 

De  Haga 
De  Bemerside. 

In  reverting  to  the  days  of  his  childhood,  Scott  observed 
that  the  lameness  which  had  disabled  him  in  infancy  gradually 
decreased ;  he  soon  acquired  strength  in  his  limbs,  and  though 
he  always  limped,  he  became,  even  in  boyhood,  a  great  walker. 
He  used  frequently  to  stroll  from  home  and  wander  about  the 
country  for  days  together,  picking  up  all  kinds  of  local  gossip, 
and  observing  popular  scenes  and  characters.  His  father  used 
to  be  vexed  with  him  for  this  wandering  propensity,  and, 
shaking  his  head,  would  say  he  fancied  the  boy  would  make 
nothing  but  a  peddler.  As  he  grew  older  he  became  a  keen 
sportsman,  and  passed  much  of  his  time  hunting  and  shooting. 
His  field  sports  led  him  into  the  most  wild  and  unfrequented 
parts  of  the  country,  and  in  this  way  he  picked  up  much 
of  that  local  knowledge  which  he  has  since  evinced  in  his 
writings. 

His  first  visit  to  Loch  Katrine,  he  says,  was  in  his  boyish 
days,  on  a  shooting  excursion.  The  island,  which  he  has  made 
the  romantic  residence  of  the  "Lady  of  the  Lake,"  was  then 
garrisoned  by  an  old  man  and  his  wife.  Their  house  was 
vacant;  they  had  put  the  key  under  the  door,  and  were  absent 
fishing.  It  was  at  that  time  a  peaceful  residence,  but  became 
afterward  a  resort  of  smugglers,  until  they  wore  ferreted  out. 

In  after  years,  when  Scott  began  to  turn  this  local  know 
ledge  to  literary  account,  he  revisited  many  of  those  scenes  of 
his  early  ramblings,  and  endeavored  to  secure  the  fugitive 
remains  of  the  traditions  and  songs  that  had  charmed  his  boy 
hood.  When  collecting  materials  for  his  ' '  Border  Minstrelsy, " 


ABBOTSFORD.  41 

he  used,  he  said,  to  go  from  cottage  to  cottage,  and  make  the 
old  wives  repeat  all  they  knew,  if  but  two  lines ;  and  by  put 
ting  these  scraps  together,  he  retrieved  many  a  fine  character 
istic  old  ballad  or  tradition  from  oblivion. 

I  regret  to  say  that  I  can  scarce  recollect  anything  of  our 
visit  to  Dryburgh  Abbey.  It  is  on  the  estate  of  the  Earl  of 
Buchan.  The  religious  edifice  is  a  mere  ruin,  rich  in  Gothic 
antiquities,  but  especially  interesting  to  Scott,  from  containing 
the  family  vault,  and  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  his  ances 
tors.  He  appeared  to  feel  much  chagrin  at  their  being  in  the 
possession,  and  subject  to  the  intermeddlings  of  the  Earl,  who 
was  represented  as  a  nobleman  of  an  eccentric  character.  The 
latter,  however,  set  great  value  on  these  sepulchral  relics,  and 
had  expressed  a  lively  anticipation  of  one  day  or  other  having 
the  honor  of  burying  Scott,  and  adding  his  monument  to  the 
collection,  which  he  intended  should  be  worthy  of  the  ' '  mighty 
minstrel  of  the  north" — a  prospective  compliment  which  was 
by  no  means  relished  by  the  object  of  it. 

One  of  my  pleasant  rambles  with  Scott,  about  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Abbotsford,  was  taken  in  company  with  Mr.  William 
Laidlaw,  the  steward  of  his  estate.  This  was  a  gentleman  for 
whom  Scott  entertained  a  particular  value.  He  had  been  born 
to  a  competency,  had  been  well  educated,  his  mind  was  richly 
stored  with  varied  information,  and  he  was  a  man  of  sterling 
moral  worth.  Having  been  reduced  by  misfortune,  Scott 
had  got  him  to  take  charge  of  his  estate.  He  lived  at  a  small 
farm  on  the  hillside  above  Abbotsford,  and  was  treated  by 
Scott  as  a  cherished  and  confidential  friend,  rather  than  a 
dependent. 

As  the  day  was  showery,  Scott  was  attended  by  one  of  his 
retainers,  named  Tommie  Purdie,  who  carried  his  plaid,  and 
who  deserves  especial  mention.  Sophia  Scott  used  to  call  him 
her  father's  grand  ^dzier,  and  she  gave  a  playful  account  one 
evening,  as  she  was  hanging  on  her  father's  arm,  of  the  con 
sultations  which  ho  and  Tommie  used  to  have  about  matters 
relative  to  farming.  Purdie  was  tenacious  of  his  opinions, 
and  he  and  Scott  would  have  long  disputes  in  front  of  the 
house,  as  to  something  that  was  to  be  done  on  the  estate,  until 
the  latter,  fairly  tired  out,  would  abandon  the  ground  and  the 
argument,  exclaiming,  "  Well,  well,  Tom,  have  it  your  own 
way." 

After  a  time,  however,  Purdie  would  present  himself  at  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  and  observe.  "  J  ha'  been  thinking  over  the 


42  ABBOTSFORD. 

matter,  and  upon  the  whole,  I  think  I'll  take  your  honor's 
advice." 

Scott  laughed  heartily  when  this  anecdote  was  told  of  him. 
"  It  was  with  him  and  Tom,"  he  said,  "  as  it  was  with  an  old 
laird  and  a  pet  servant,  whom  he  had  indulged  until  he  was 
positive  beyond  all  endurance,"  "This  won't  do!"  cried  the 
old  laird,  in  a  passion,  "we  can't  live  together  any  longer- -we 
must  part."  "An'  where  the  deil  does  your  honor  mean  to 
go?"  replied  the  other. 

I  would,  moreover,  observe  of  Tom  Purdie,  that  he  was  a 
firm  believer  in  ghosts,  and  warlocks,  and  all  kinds  of  old 
wives'  fable.  He  was  a  religious  man,  too,  mingling  a  little 
degree  of  Scottish  pride  in  his  devotion ;  for  though  his  salary 
was  but  twenty  pounds  a  year,  he  had  managed  to  afford 
seven  pounds  for  a  family  Bible.  It  is  true,  he  had  one  hun 
dred  pounds  clear  of  the  world,  and  was  looked  up  to  by  his 
comrades  as  a  man  of  property. 

In  the  course  of  our  morning's  walk,  we  stopped  at  a  small 
house  belonging  to  one  of  the  laborers  on  the  estate.  The 
object  of  Scott's  visit  was  to  inspect  a  relic  which  had  been 
digged  up  in  a  Roman  camp,  and  which,  if  I  recollect  right,  he 
pronounced  to  have  been  a  tongs.  It  was  produced  by  the 
cottager's  wife,  a  ruddy,  healthy-looking  dame,  whom  Scott 
addressed  by  the  name  of  Ailie.  As  he  stood  regarding  the 
relic,  turning  it  round  and  round,  and  making  comments  upon 
it,  half  grave,  half  comic,  with  the  cottage  group  around  him, 
all  joining  occasionally  in  the  colloquy,  the  inimitable  char 
acter  of  Monkbams  was  again  brought  to  mind,  and  I  seemed 
to  see  before  me  that  prince  of  antiquarians  and  humorists 
holding  forth  to  his  unlearned  and  unbelieving  neighbors. 

Whenever  Scott  touched,  in  this  way,  upon  local  antiquities, 
and  in  all  his  familiar  conversations  about  local  traditions  and 
superstitions,  there  was  always  a  sly  and  quiet  humor  running 
at  the  bottom  of  his  discourse,  and  playing  about  his  counte 
nance,  as  if  he  sported  with  the  subject.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  he  distrusted  his  own  enthusiasm,  and  was  disposed  to  droll 
upon  his  own  humors  and  peculiarities,  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
a  poetic  gleam  in  his  eye  would  show  that  he  really  took  a 
strong  relish  and  interest  in  them.  "It  was  a  pity,"  he  said, 
"that  antiquarians  were  generally  so  dry,  for  the  subjects 
they  handled  were  rich  in  historical  and  poetical  recollections, 
in  picturesque  details,  in  quaint  and  heroic  characteristics,  and 
in  all  kinds  of  curious  and  obsolete  ceremonials.  They  are 


ABBOTSFORD,  43 

always  groping  among  the  rarest  materials  for  poetry,  but 
they  have  no  idea  of  turning  them  to  poetic  use.  Now  every 
fragment  from  old  times  has,  in  some  degree,  its  story  with  it, 
or  gives  an  inkling  of  something  characteristic  of  the  circum 
stances  and  manners  of  its  day,  and  so  sets  the  imagination  at 
work." 

For  my  own  part  I  never  met  with  antiquarian  so  delightful, 
either  in  his  writings  or  his  conversation ;  and  the  quiet  sub- 
acid  humor  that  was  prone  to  mingle  in  his  disquisitions,  gave 
them,  to  me,  a  peculiar  and  an  exquisite  flavor.  But  he  seemed,  > 
in  fact,  to  undervalue  everything  that  concerned  himself.  The 
play  of  his  genius  was  so  easy  that  he  was  unconscious  of  its 
mighty  power,  and  made  light  of  those  sports  of  intellect  that 
shamed  the  efforts  and  labors  of  other  minds. 

Our  ramble  this  morning  took  us  again  up  the  Rhymer's 
Glen,  and  by  Huntley  Bank,  and  Huntley  Wood,  and  the  silver 
waterfall  overhung  with  weeping  birches  and  mountain  ashes, 
those  delicate  and  beautiful  trees  which  grace  the  green  shaws 
and  burnsides  of  Scotland.  The  heather,  too,  that  closely 
woven  robe  of  Scottish  landscape  which  covers  the  nakedness 
of  its  hills  and  mountains,  tinted  the  neighborhood  with  soft 
and  rich  colors.  As  we  ascended  the  glen,  the  prospects  opened 
upon  us;  Melrose,  with  its  towers  and  pinnacles,  lay  below; 
beyond  were  the  Eildon  hills,  the  Cowden  Knowes,  the  Tweed, 
the  Galla  Water,  and  all  the  storied  vicinity ;  the  whole  land 
scape  varied  by  gleams  of  sunshine  and  driving  showers. 

Scott,  as  usual,  took  the  lead,  limping  along  with  great 
activity,  and  in  joyous  mood,  giving  scraps  of  border  rhymes 
and  border  stories ;  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  our  walk 
there  were  drizzling  showers,  which  I  supposed  would  put  an 
end  to  our  ramble,  but  my  companions  trudged  on  as  uncon 
cernedly  as  if  it  had  been  fine  weather. 

At  length,  I  asked  whether  we  had  not  better  seek  some  shel 
ter.  "True,"  said  Scott,  "I  did  not  recollect  that  you  were  not 
accustomed  to  our  Scottish  mists.  This  is  a  lachrymose  climate, 
evermore  showering.  We,  however,  are  children  of  the  mist, 
and  must  not  mind  a  little  whimpering  of  the  clouds  any  more 
than  a  man  must  mind  the  weeping  of  an  hysterical  wife.  As 
you  are  not  accustomed  to  be  wet  through,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  a  morning's  walk,  we  will  bide  a  bit  under  tJie  lee  of 
this  bank  until  the  shower  is  over."  Taking  his  seat  under 
shelter  of  a  thicket,  he  called  to  his  man  George  for  his  tartan, 
then  turning  to  me,  "  Come,"  said  he,  "  come  under  my  plaidy, 


44  ABBOTSFORD. 

as  the  old  song  goes ;"  so,  making  me  nestle  down  beside  him, 
he  wrapped  a  part  of  the  plaid  round  me,  and  took  me,  as  he 
said,  under  his  wing. 

While  we  were  thus  nestled  together,  he  pointed  to  a  hole 
in  the  opposite  bank  of  the  glen.  That,  he  said,  was  the  hole  of 
an  old  gray  badger,  who  was  doubtless  snugly  housed  in  this  bad 
weather.  Sometimes  he  saw  him  at  the  entrance  of  his  hole, 
like  a  hermit  at  the  door  of  his  cell,  telling  his  beads,  or  reading 
a  homily.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  the  venerable  anchorite, 
and  would  not  suffer  him  to  be  disturbed.  He  was  a  kind  of 
successor  to  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  perhaps  might  be  Thomas 
himself  returned  from  fairy  land,  but  still  under  fairy  spell. 

Some  accident  turned  the  conversation  upon  Hogg,  the  poet, 
hi  which  Laidlaw,  who  was  seated  beside  us,  took  a  part. 
Hogg  had  once  been  a  shepherd  in  the  service  of  his  father,  and 
Laidlaw  gave  many  interesting  anecdotes  of  him,  of  which  I 
now  retain  no  recollection.  They  used  to  tend  the  sheep 
together  when  Laidlaw  was  a  boy,  and  Hogg  would  recite  the 
first  struggling  conceptions  of  his  muse.  At  night  when  Laid 
law  was  quartered  comfortably  in  bed,  in  the  farmhouse,  poor 
Hogg  would  take  to  the  shepherd's  hut  in  the  field  on  the  hill 
side,  and  there  lie  awake  for  hours  together,  and  look  at  the 
stars  and  make  poetry,  which  he  would  repeat  the  next  day  to 
his  companion. 

Scott  spoke  in  warm  terms  of  Hogg,  and  repeated  passages 
from  his  beautiful  poem  of  "  Kelmeny,"  to  which  he  gave  great 
and  well-merited  praise.  He  gave,  also,  some  amusing  anec 
dotes  of  Hogg  and  his  publisher,  Blackwood,  who  was  at  that 
tune  just  rising  into  the  bibliographical  importance  which  he 
has  since  enjoyed. 

Hogg,  in  one  of  his  poems,  I  believe  the  "Pilgrims  of  the 
Sun, "  had  dabbled  a  little  in  metaphysics,  and  like  his  heroes, 
had  got  into  the  clouds.  Blackwood,  who  began  to  affect  criti 
cism,  argued  stoutly  with  him  as  to  the  necessity  of  omitting 
or  elucidating  some  obscure  passage.  Hogg  was  immovable. 

"But,  man, "said  Blackwood,  "I  dinna  ken  what  ye  mean 
in  this  passage. "  "  Hout  tout,  man, "  replied  Hogg,  impatiently, 
"I  dinna  ken  always  what  I  mean  mysel."  There  is  many  a 
metaphysical  poet  in  the  same  predicament  with  honest  Hogg. 

Scott  promised  to  invite  the  Shepherd  to  Abbotsford  during 
my  visit,  and  I  anticipated  much  gratification  in  meeting  with 
him,  from  the  account  I  had  received  of  his  character  and 
manners,  and  the  great  pleasure  I  had  derived  from  his  works. 


ABBOTSFORD.  45 

Circumstances,  however,  prevented  Scott  from  performing  his 
promise ;  and  to  my  great  regret  I  left  Scotland  without  seeing 
one  of  its  most  original  and  national  characters. 

When  the  weather  held  up,  we  continued  our  walk  until  we 
came  to  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  in  the  bosom  of  the  moun 
tain,  called,  if  I  recollect  right,  the  lake  of  Cauldshiel.  Scott 
prided  himself  much  upon  this  little  Mediterranean  sea  in  his 
dominions,  and  hoped  I  was  not  too  much  spoiled  by  our  great 
lakes  in  America  to  relish  it.  He  proposed  to  take  me  out  to 
the  centre  of  it,  to  a  fine  point  of  view,  for  which  purpose  we 
embarked  in  a  small  boat,  which  had  been  put  on  the  lake  by 
his  neighbor,  Lord  Somerville.  As  I  was  about  to  step  on 
board,  I  observed  in  large  letters  on  one  of  the  benches,  "  Search 
No.  2."  I  paused  for  a  moment  and  repeated  the  inscription 
aloud,  trying  to  recollect  something  I  had  heard  or  read  to 
which  it  alluded.  "Pshaw,"  cried  Scott,  "it  is  only  some  of 
Lord  Somerville's  nonsense — get  in !"  In  an  instant  scenes  in 
the  Antiquary  connected  with  ' '  Search  No.  1, "  flashed  upon  my 
mind.  "Ah!  I  remember  now,"  said  I,  and  with  a  laugh  took 
my  seat,  but  adverted  no  more  to  the  circumstance. 

We  had  a  pleasant  row  about  the  lake,  which  commanded 
some  pretty  scenery.  The  most  interesting  circumstance  con 
nected  with  it,  however,  according  to  Scott,  was,  that  it  was 
haunted  by  a  bogle  in  the  shape  of  a  water  bull,  which  lived  in 
the  deep  parts,  and  now  and  then  came  forth  upon  dry  land 
and  made  a  tremendous  roaring,  that  shook  the  very  hills. 
This  story  had  been  current  in  the  vicinity  from  time  immemo 
rial; — there  was  a  man  living  who  declared  he  had  seen  the 
bull, — and  he  was  believed  by  many  of  his  simple  neighbors. 
"  I  don't  choose  to  contradict  the  tale,"  said  Scott,  "for  I  am 
willing  to  have  my  lake  stocked  with  any  fish,  flesh,  or  fowl 
that  my  neighbors  think  proper  to  put  into  it ;  arid  these  old 
wives'  fables  are  a  kind  of  property  in  Scotland  that  belongs  to 
the  estates  and  goes  with  the  soil.  Our  streams  and  lochs  are 
like  the  rivers  and  pools  in  Germany,  that  have  all  their  Wasser 
Nixe,  or  water  witches,  and  I  have  a  fancy  for  these  kind  of 
amphibious  bogles  and  hobgoblins." 


Scott  went  on  after  we  had  landed  to  make  many  remarks, 
mingled  with  picturesque  anecdotes,  concerning  the  fabulous 
beings  with  which  the  Scotch  were  apt  to  people  the  wild 
streams  and  lochs  that  occur  in  the  solemn  and  lonely  scenes. 


46  ABBOTSFORD. 

of  their  mountains ;  and  to  compare  them  with  similar  super 
stitions  among  the  northern  nations  of  Europe;  but  Scotland, 
he  said,  was  above  all  other  countries  for  this  wild  and  vivid 
progeny  of  the  fancy,  from  the  nature  of  the  scenery,  the 
misty  magnificence  and  vagueness  of  the  climate,  the  wild  and 
gloomy  events  of  its  history ;  the  clannish  divisions  of  its  peo 
ple  ;  their  local  f eelings,  notions,  and  prejudices ;  the  individu 
ality  of  their  dialect,  in  which  all  kinds  of  odd  and  peculiar 
notions  were  incorporated ;  by  the  secluded  lif  e  of  their  moun 
taineers;  the  lonely  habits  of  their  pastoral  people,  much  of 
whose  time  was  passed  on  the  solitary  hillsides;  their  tradi 
tional  songs,  which  clothed  every  rock  and  stream  with  old 
world  stories,  handed  down  from  age  to  age,  and  generation  to 
generation.  The  Scottish  mind,  he  said,  was  made  up  of 
poetry  and  strong  common  sense ;  and  the  very  strength  of  the 
latter  gave  perpetuity  and  luxuriance  to  the  former.  It  was  a 
strong  tenacious  soil,  into  which,  when  once  a  seed  of  poetry 
fell,  it  struck  deep  root  and  brought  forth  abundantly.  "  You 
will  never  weed  these  popular  stories  and  songs  and  super 
stitions  out  of  Scotland,"  said  he.  "  It  is  not  so  much  that  the 
people  believe  in  them,  as  that  they  delight  in  them.  They  be 
long  to  the  native  hills  and  streams  of  which  they  are  fond, 
and  to  the  history  of  their  forefathers,  of  which  they  are 
proud." 

"  It  would  do  your  heart  good,"  continued  he,  "to  see  a  num 
ber  of  our  poor  country  people  seated  round  the  ingle  nook, 
which  is  generally  capacious  enough,  and  passing  the  long 
dark  dreary  winter  nights  listening  to  some  old  wife,  or  stroll 
ing  gaberlunzie,  dealing  out  auld  world  stories  about  bogles 
and  warlocks,  or  about  raids  and  forays,  and  border  skir 
mishes;  or  reciting  some  ballad  stuck  full  of  those  fighting 
names  that  stir  up  a  true  Scotchman's  blood  like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet.  These  traditional  tales  and  ballads  have  lived  for 
ages  in  mere  oral  circulation,  being  passed  from  father  to  son, 
or  rather  from  grandam  to  grandchild,  and  are  a  kind  of 
hereditary  property  of  the  poor  peasantry,  of  which  it  would 
be  hard  to  deprive  them,  as  they  have  not  circulating  libraries 
to  supply  them  with  works  of  fiction  in  their  place." 

I  do  not  pretend  to  give  the  precise  words,  but,  as  nearly  as 
I  can  from  scanty  memorandums  and  vague  recollections,  the 
leading  ideas  of  Scott.  I  am  constantly  sensible,  however,  how 
far  I  fall  short  of  his  copiousness  and  richness. 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  elves  and  sprites,  so  frequent 


ABBOTSFORD.  47 

in  Scottish  legend.  "  Our  fairies,  however,"  said  he,  "  though 
they  dress  in  green,  and  gambol  by  moonlight  about  the  banks, 
and  shaws,  and  burnsides,  are  not  such  pleasant  little  folks  as 
the  English  fairies,  but  are  apt  to  bear  more  of  the  warlock  in 
their  natures,  and  to  play  spiteful  tricks.  When  I  was  a  boy,  I 
used  to  look  wistfully  at  the  green  hillocks  that  were  said  to 
be  haunted  by  fairies,  and  felt  sometimes  as  if  I  should  like  to 
he  down  by  them  and  sleep,  and  be  carried  off  to  Fairy  Land, 
only  that  I  did  not  like  some  of  the  cantrips  which  used  now 
and  then  to  be  played  off  upon  visitors." 

Here  Scott  recounted,  in  graphic  style,  and  with  much 
humor,  a  little  story  which  used  to  be  current  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  of  an  honest  burgess  of  Selkirk,  who,  being  at  work 
upon  the  hill  of  Peatlaw,  fell  asleep  upon  one  of  these  "fairy 
knowes,"  or  hillocks.  When  he  awoke,  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  gazed  about  him  with  astonishment,  for  he  was  in  the 
market-place  of  a  great  city,  with  a  crowd  of  people  bustling 
about  him,  not  one  of  whom  he  knew.  At  length  he  accosted 
a  bystander,  and  asked  him  the  name  of  the  place.  "Hout 
man,"  replied  the  other,  "  are  ye  in  the  heart  o'  Glasgow,  and 
speer  the  name  of  it?"  The  poor  man  was  astonished,  and 
would  not  believe  either  ears  or  eyes ;  he  insisted  that  he  had 
lain  down  to  sleep  but  half  an  hour  before  on  the  Peatlaw, 
near  Selkirk.  He  came  well  nigh  being  taken  up  for  a  mad 
man,  when,  fortunately,  a  Selkirk  man  came  by,  who  knew 
him,  and  took  charge  of  him,  and  conducted  him  back  to  his 
native  place.  Here,  however,  he  was  likely  to  fare  no  better, 
when  he  spoke  of  having  been  whisked  in  his  sleep  from  the 
Peatlaw  to  Glasgow.  The  truth  of  the  matter  at  length  came 
out;  his  coat,  which  he  had  taken  off  when  at  work  on  the 
Peatlaw,  was  found  lying  near  a  "  fairy  knowe,"  and  his  bon 
net,  which  was  missing,  was  discovered  on  the  weathercock  of 
Lanark  steeple.  So  it  was  as  clear  as  day  that  he  had  been 
carried  through  the  air  by  the  fairies  while  he  was  sleeping, 
and  his  bonnet  had  been  blown  off  by  the  way. 

I  give  this  little  story  but  meagrely  from  a  scanty  memo 
randum  ;  Scott  has  related  it  hi  somewhat  different  style  in  a 
note  to  one  of  his  poems ;  but  in  narration  these  anecdotes  de 
rived  their  chief  zest,  from  the  quiet  but  delightful  humor, 
the  bonhomie  with  which  he  seasoned  them,  and  the  sly  glance 
of  the  eye  from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  with  which  they 
were  accompanied. 


48  ABBOTSFORD. 

That  day  at  dinner,  we  had  Mr.  Laidlaw  and  his  wife,  rnd  a 
female  friend  who  accompanied  them.  The  latter  was  a  very 
intelligent,  respectable  person,  about  the  middle  age,  and  was 
treated  with  particular  attention  and  courtesy  by  Scott.  Our 
dinner  was  a  most  agreeable  one ;  for  the  guests  were  evidently 
cherished  visitors  to  the  house,  and  felt  that  they  were  appre 
ciated. 

When  they  were  gone,  Scott  spoke  of  them  in  the  most 
cordial  manner.  "I  wished  to  show  you,"  said  he,  "  some  of 
our  really  excellent,  plain  Scotch  people ;  not  fine  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  for  such  you  can  meet  everywhere,  and  they  are 
everywhere  the  same.  The  character  of  a  nation  is  not  to  be 
learnt  from  its  fine  folks." 

He  then  went  on  with  a  particular  eulogium  on  the  lady  who 
had  accompanied  the  Laidlaws.  She  was  the  daughter,  he  said, 
of  a  poor  country  clergyman,  who  had  died  in  debt,  and  left 
her  an  orphan  and  destitute.  Having  had  a  good  plain  educa 
tion,  she  immediately  set  up  a  child's  school,  and  had  soon  a 
numerous  flock  under  her  care,  by  which  she  earned  a  decent 
maintenance.  That,  however,  was  not  her  main  object.  Her 
first  care  was  to  pay  off  her  father's  debts,  that  no  ill  word  or 
ill  will  might  rest  upon  his  memory. 

This,  by  dint  of  Scottish  economy,  backed  by  filial  reverence 
and  pride,  she  accomplished,  though  in  the  effort,  she  subjected 
herself  to  every  privation.  Not  content  with  this,  she  in  cer 
tain  instances  refused  to  take  pay  for  the  tuition  of  the  chil 
dren  of  some  of  her  neighbors,  who  had  befriended  her  father 
in  his  need,  and  had  since  fallen  into  poverty.  "In a  word," 
added  Scott,  "she  is  a  fine  old  Scotch  girl ;  and  I  delight  in  her, 
more  than  in  many  a  fine  lady  I  have  known,  and  I  have  known 
many  of  the  finest." 


It  is  time,  however,  to  draw  this  rambling  narrative  to  a 
close.  Several  days  were  passed  by  me,  in  the  way  I  have  at 
tempted  to  describe,  ir  almost  constant,  familiar,  and  joyous 
conversation  with  Scott ;  it  was  as  if  I  were  admitted  to  a  social 
communion  with  Shakespeare,  for  it  was  with  one  of  a  kindred, 
if  not  equal  genius.  Every  night  I  retired  with  my  mind  filled 
with  delightful  recollections  of  the  day,  and  every  morning  I 
rose  with  the  certainty  of  new  enjoyment.  The  days  thus 
spent,  I  shall  ever  look  back  to,  as  among  the  very  happiest 
of  my  lif e ;  for  I  was  conscious  at  the  time  of  being  happy. 


ABBOTSFORD.  49 

The  only  sad  moment  that  I  experienced  at  Abbotsf ord  was 
ihat  of  my  departure ;  but  it  was  cheered  with  the  prospect  of 
soon  returning ;  for  I  had  promised,  after  making  a  tour  in  the 
Highlands,  to  come  and  pass  a  few  more  days  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tweed,  when  Scott  intended  to  invite  Hogg  the  poet  to  meet 
me.  I  took  a  kind  fareweU  of  the  family,  with  each  of  whom 
I  had  been  highly  pleased.  If  I  have  refrained  from  dwelling 
particularly  on  their  several  characters,  and  giving  anecdotes 
of  them  individually,  it  is  because  I  consider  them  shielded  by 
the  sanctity  of  domestic  life ;  Scott,  on  the  contrary,  belongs  to 
history.  As  he  accompanied  me  on  foot,  however,  to  a  small 
gate  on  the  confines  of  his  premises,  I  could  not  refrain,  from 
expressing  the  enjoyment  I  had  experienced  in  his  domestic 
circle,  and  passing  some  warm  eulogiums  on  the  young  folks 
from  whom  I  had  just  parted.  I  shall  never  forget  his  reply. 
"  They  have  kind  hearts,"  said  he,  "and  that  is  the  main  point 
as  to  human  happiness.  They  love  one  another,  poor  things, 
which  is  every  thing  in  domestic  life.  The  best  wish  I  can 
make  you,  my  friend, "  added  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  my 
shoulder,  ' '  is,  that  when  you  return  to  your  own  country,  you 
may  get  married,  and  have  a  family  of  young  bairns  about 
you.  If  you  are  happy,  there  they  are  to  share  your  happi 
ness — and  if  you  are  otherwise — there  they  are  to  comfort 
you." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  gate,  when  he  halted,  and 
took  my  hand.  "I  will  not  say  farewell,"  said  he,  "for  it  is 
always  a  painful  word,  but  I  will  say,  come  again.  When  you 
have  made  your  tour  to  the  Highlands,  come  here  and  give  me 
a  few  more  days — but  come  when  you  please,  you  will  always 
find  Abbotsf  ord  open  to  you,  and  a  hearty  welcome." 


I  have  thus  given,  in  a  rude  style,  my  main  recollections  of 
what  occurred  during  my  sojourn  at  Abbotsford,  and  I  feel 
mortified  that  I  can  give  but  such  meagre,  scattered,  and  color 
less  details  of  what  was  so  copious,  rich,  and  varied.  During 
several  days  that  I  passed  there  Scott  was  in  admirable  vein. 
From  early  morn  until  dinner  time  he  was  rambling  about, 
showing  me  the  neighborhood,  and  during  dinner  and  until 
late  at  night,  engaged  in  social  conversation.  No  time  was  re 
served  for  himself ;  he  seemed  as  if  his  only  occupation  was  to 
entertain  me ;  and  yet  I  was  almost  an  entire  stranger  to  him, 
one  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  but  an  idle  book  I  had  written. 


50  ABBOTSFORD. 

and  which,  some  years  before,  had  amused  him.  But  such  was 
Scott — he  appeared  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  lavish  his  time, 
attention,  and  conversation  on  those  around.  It  was  difficult 
to  imagine  what  time  he  found  to  write  those  volumes  that 
were  incessantly  issuing  from  the  press ;  all  of  which,  too,  were 
of  a  nature  to  require  reading  and  research.  I  could  not  find 
that  his  life  was  ever  otherwise  than  a  life  of  leisure  and  hap 
hazard  recreation,  such  as  it  was  during  my  visit.  He  scarce 
ever  balked  a  party  of  pleasure,  or  a  sporting  excursion,  and 
rarely  pleaded  his  own  concerns  as  an  excuse  for  rejecting  those 
of  others.  During  my  visit  I  heard  of  other  visitors  who  had 
preceded  me,  and  who  must  have  kept  him  occupied  for  many 
days,  and  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  the  course  of 
his  daily  life  for  some  time  subsequently.  Not  long  after  my 
departure  from  Abbotsford,  my  friend  Wilkie  arrived  there, 
to  paint  a  picture  of  the  Scott  family.  He  found  the  house  full 
of  guests.  Scott's  whole  time  was  taken  up  in  riding  and  driv 
ing  about  the  country,  or  in  social  conversation  at  home.  "All 
this  time,"  said  Wilkie  to  me,  "  I  did  not  presume  to  ask  Mr. 
Scott  to  sit  for  his  portrait,  for  I  saw  he  had  not  a  moment  to 
spare ;  I  waited  for  the  guests  to  go  away,  but  as  fast  as  one 
went  another  arrived,  and  so  it  continued  for  several  days,  and 
with  each  set  he  was  completely  occupied.  At  length  all  went 
off,  and  we  were  quiet.  I  thought,  however,  Mr.  Scott  will  now 
shut  himself  up  among  his  books  and  papers,  for  he  has  to  make 
up  for  lost  time ;  it  won't  do  for  me  to  ask  him  now  to  sit  for 
his  picture.  Laidlaw,  who  managed  his  estate,  came  in,  and 
Scott  turned  to  him,  as  I  supposed,  to  consult  about  business. 
'Laidlaw,'  said  he,  'to-morrow  morning  we'll  go  across  the 
water  and  take  the  dogs  with  us — there's  a  place  where  I  think 
we  shall  be  able  to  find  a  hare. ' 

" In  short,"  added  Wilkie,  "I  found  that  instead  of  business, 
he  was  thinking  only  of  amusement,  as  if  he  had  nothing  in 
the  world  to  occupy  him;  so  I  no  longer  feared  to  intrude  upon 
him." 

The  conversation  of  Scott  was  frank,  hearty,  picturesque, 
and  dramatic.  During  the  time  of  my  visit  he  inclined  to  the 
comic  rather  than  the  grave,  in  his  anecdotes  and  stories,  and 
such,  I  was  told,  was  his  general  inclination.  He  relished  a 
joke,  or  a  trait  of  humor  in  social  intercourse,  and  laughed 
with  right  good  will.  He  talked  not  for  effect  nor  display,  but 
from  the  flow  of  his  spirits,  the  stores  of  his  memory,  and  the 
vigor  of  his  imagination.  He  hnd  a  natural  turn  for  narration, 


ABBOT^FORD.  61 

and  his  narratives  and  descriptions  were  without  effort,  yet 
wonderfully  graphic.  He  placed  the  scene  before  you  like  a 
picture ;  he  gave  the  dialogue  with  the  appropriate  dialect  or 
peculiarities,  and  described  the  appearance  and  characters  of 
his  personages  with  that  spirit  and  felicity  evinced  in  his 
writings.  Indeed,  his  conversation  reminded  me  continually 
of  his  novels;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  that  during  the  whole 
time  I  was  with  him,  he  talked  enough  to  fill  volumes,  and 
that  they  could  not  have  been  filled  more  delightfully. 

He  was  as  good  a  listener  as  talker,  appreciating  everything 
that  others  said,  however  humble  might  be  their  rank  or  pre 
tensions,  and  was  quick  to  testify  his  perception  of  any  point 
in  their  discourse.  He  arrogated  nothing  to  himself,  but  was 
perfectly  unassuming  and  unpretending,  entering  with  heart 
and  soul  into  the  business,  or  pleasure,  or,  I  had  almost  said, 
folly,  of  the  hour  and  the  company.  No  one's  concerns,  no 
one's  thoughts,  no  one's  opinions,  no  one's  tastes  and  pleasures 
seemed  beneath  him.  He  made  himself  so  thoroughly  the 
companion  of  those  with  whom  he  happened  to  be,  that  they 
forgot  for  a  tune  his  vast  superiority,  and  only  recollected  and 
wondered,  when  all  was  over,  that  it  was  Scott  with  whom 
they  had  been  on  such  familiar  terms,  and  in  whose  society 
they  had  felt  so  perfectly  at  their  ease. 

It  was  delightful  to  observe  the  generous  spirit  in  which  he 
spoke  of  all  his  literary  contemporaries,  quoting  the  beauties 
of  their  works,  and  this,  too,  with  respect  to  persons  with 
whom  he  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  at  variance  in  litera 
ture  or  politics.  Jeffrey,  it  was  thought,  had  ruffled  his  plumes 
hi  one  of  his  reviews,  yet  Scott  spoke  of  him  in  terms  of  high 
and  warm  eulogy,  both  as  an  author  and  as  a  man. 

His  humor  in  conversation,  as  in  his  works,  was  genial  and 
free  from  all  causticity.  He  had  a  quick  perception  of  faults 
and  foibles,  but  he  looked  upon  poor  human  nature  with  an  in 
dulgent  eye,  relishing  what  was  good  and  pleasant,  tolerating 
what  was  frail,  and  pitying  what  was  evil.  It  is  this  beneficent 
spirit  which  gives  such  an  air  of  bonhomie  to  Scott's  humor 
throughout  all  his  works.  He  played  with  the  foibles  and 
errors  of  his  fellow  beings,  and  presented  them  in  a  thousand 
whimsical  and  characteristic  lights,  but  the  kindness  and  gen 
erosity  of  his  nature  would  not  allow  him  to  be  a  satirist.  I  do 
not  recollect  a  sneer  throughout  his  conversation  any  more 
than  there  is  throughout  his  works. 

Such  is  a  rough  sketch  of  Scott,  as  I  saw  him  in  private  lif  e, 


52     '  ABHOTSFO&D. 

mot  merely  at  the  time  of  the  visit  here  narrated,  but  in  tho 
casual  intercourse  of  subsequent  years.  Of  his  public  charac 
ter  and  merits,  all  the  world  can  judge.  His  works  have  incor 
porated  themselves  with  the  thoughts  and  concerns  of  the 
whole  civilized  world,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  have  had 
a  controlling  influence  over  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  But 
when  did  a  human  being  ever  exercise  an  influence  more 
salutary  and  benignant?  Who  is  there  that,  on  looking  back 
over  a  great  portion  of  his  life,  does  not  find  the  genius  of 
Scott  administering  to  his  pleasures,  beguiling  his  cares,  and 
soothing  his  lonely  sorrows?  Who  does  not  still  regard  his 
works  as  a  treasury  of  pure  enjoyment,  an  armory  to  which  to 
resort  in  time  of  need,  to  find  weapons  with  which  to  fight  off 
the  evils  and  the  griefs  of  life?  For  my  own  part,  in  periods 
of  dejection,  I  have  hailed  the  announcement  of  a  new  work 
from  his  pen  as  an  earnest  of  certain  pleasure  in  store  for  me, 
and  have  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  traveller  in  a  waste  looks  to 
a  green  spot  at  a  distance,  where  he  feels  assured  of  solace  and 
refreshment.  When  I  consider  how  much  he  has  thus  contri 
buted  to  the  better  hours  of  my  past  existence,  and  how  inde 
pendent  his  works  still  make  me,  at  times,  of  all  the  world  for 
my  enjoyment,  I  bless  my  stars  that  cast  my  lot  in  his  days, 
to  be  thus  cheered  and  gladdened  by  the  outpourings  of  his 
genius.  I  consider  it  one  of  the  greatest  advantages  that  I 
have  derived  from  my  literary  career,  that  it  has  elevated  me 
into  genial  communion  with  such  a  spirit ;  and  as  a  tribute  of 
gratitude  for  his  friendship,  and  veneration  for  his  memory,  I 
cast  this  humble  stone  upon  his  cairn,  which  will  soon,  I 
trust,  be  piled  aloft  with  the  contributions  of  abler  hands. 


NEWSTEAD    ABBEY. 


NEWSTEAD    ABBEY. 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE. 

BEING  about  to  give  a  few  sketches  taken  during-  a  three 
weeks'  sojourn  in  the  ancestral  mansion  of  the  late  Lord 
Byron,  I  think  it  proper  to  premise  some  brief  particulars 
concerning  its  history. 

Newstead  Abbey  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  in  existence  of 
those  quaint  and  romantic  piles,  half  castle,  half  convent,  which 
remain  as  monuments  of  the  olden  times  of  England.  It  stands, 
too,  in  the  midst  of  a  legendary  neighborhood;  being  in  the 
heart  of  Sherwood  Forest,  and  surrounded  by  the  haunts  of 
Robin  Hood  and  his  band  of  outlaws,  so  famous  in  ancient 
ballad  and  nursery  tale.  It  is  true,  the  forest  scarcely  exists 
but  in  name,  and  the  tract  of  country  over  which  it  once  ex 
tended  its  broad  solitudes  and  shades,  is  now  an  open  and 
smiling  region,  cultivated  with  parks  and  farms,  and  en 
livened  with  villages. 

Newstead,  which  probably  once  exerted  a  monastic  sway  over 
this  region,  and  controlled  the  consciences  of  the  rude  fores 
ters,  was  originally  a  priory,  founded  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
twelfth  century,  by  Henry  H. ,  at  the  time  when  he  sought,  by 
building  of  shrines  and  convents,  and  by  other  acts  of  external 
piety,  to  expiate  the  murder  of  Thomas  a  Becket.  The  priory 
was  dedicated  to  God  and  the  Virgin,  and  was  inhabited  by  a 
fraternity  of  canons  regular  of  St.  Augustine.  This  order 
was  originally  simple  and  abstemious  in  its  mode  of  living, 
and  exemplary  in  its  conduct ;  but  it  would  seem  that  it  grad 
ually  lapsed  into  those  abuses  which  disgraced  too  many  of 
the  wealthy  monastic  establishments ;  for  there  are  documents 
among  its  archives  which  intimate  the  prevalence  of  gross  mis 
rule  and  dissolute  sensuality  among  its  members. 


56  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

At  the  time  of  the  dissolution  of  the  convents  during  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  Newstead  underwent  a  sudden  reverse, 
being  given,  with  the  neighboring  manor  and  rectory  of  Papel- 
wick,  to  Sir  John  Byron,  Steward  of  Manchester  and  Rochdale, 
and  Lieutenant  of  Sherwood  Forest.  This  ancient  family 
worthy  figures  in  the  traditions  of  the  Abbey,  and  in  the  ghost 
stories  with  which  it  abounds,  under  the  quaint  and  graphic 
appellation  of  ' '  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  with  the  great 
Beard."  He  converted  the  saintly  edifice  into  a  castellated 
dwelling,  making  it  his  favorite  residence  and  the  seat  of  his 
forest  jurisdiction. 

The  Byron  family  being  subsequently  ennobled  by  a  baronial 
title,  and  enriched  by  various  possessions,  maintained  great 
style  and  retinue  at  Newstead.  The  proud  edifice  partook, 
however,  of  the  vicissitudes  of  the  times,  and  Lord  Byron,  in 
one  of  his  poems,  represents  it  as  alternately  the  scene  of 
lordly  wassailing  and  of  civil  war: 

"  Hark,  how  the  hall  resounding  to  the  strain, 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din ! 
The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

"  Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms, 
The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms." 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  Abbey  came  Into 
the  possession  of  another  noted  character,  who  makes  no  less 
figure  in  its  shadowy  traditions  than  Sir  John  the  Little  with 
the  great  Beard.  This  was  the  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  fami 
liarly  known  among  the  gossiping  chroniclers  of  the  Abbey  as 
"the  Wicked  Lord  Byron."  He  is  represented  as  a  man  of 
irritable  passions  and  vindictive  temper,  in  the  indulgence  of 
which  an  incident  occurred  which  gave  a  turn  to  his  whole  char 
acter  and  life,  and  in  some  measure  affected  the  fortunes  of 
the  Abbey.  In  his  neighborhood  lived  his  kinsman  and  friend, 
Mr.  Chaworth,  proprietor  of  Annesley  Hall.  Being  together  in 
London  in  1765,  in  a  chamber  of  the  Star  and  Garter  tavern  in 
Pall  Mall,  a  quarrel  rose  between  them.  Byron  insisted  upon 
settling  it  upon  the  spot  by  single  combat.  They  fought  with 
out  seconds,  by  the  dim  light  of  a  candle,  and  Mr.  Chaworth, 
although  the  most  expert  swordsman,  received  a  mortal 
wound.  With  his  dying  breath  he  related  such  particulars 
the  contest  as  induced  the  coroner's  jury  to  return  a  verdict 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  57 

of  wilful  murder.  Lord  Byron  was  sent  to  the  Tower,  and 
subsequently  tried  before  the  House  of  Peers,  where  an  ulti 
mate  verdict  was  given  of  manslaughter. 

He  retired  after  this  to  the  Abbey,  where  he  shut  himself  up 
to  brood  over  his  disgraces ;  grew  gloomy,  morose,  and  fantas 
tical,  and  indulged  in  fits  of  passion  and  caprice,  that  made  him 
the  theme  of  rural  wonder  and  scandal.  No  talc  was  too  wild 
or  too  monstrous  for  vulgar  belief.  Like  his  successor  the 
poet,  he  was  accused  of  all  kinds  of  vagaries  and  wickedness. 
It  was  said  that  he  always  went  armed,  as  if  prepared  to 
commit  murder  on  the  least  provocation.  At  one  time,  when  a 
gentleman  of  his  neighborhood  was  to  dine  t&te  CL  tete  with  him, 
it  is  said  a  brace  of  pistols  were  gravely  laid  with  the  knives 
and  forks  upon  the  table,  as  part  of  the  regular  table  furniture, 
and  implements  that  might  be  needed  in  the  course  of  the  re 
past.  Another  rumor  states  that  being  exasperated  at  his  coach 
man  for  disobedience  to  orders,  he  shot  him  on  the  spot,  threw 
his  body  into  the  coach  where  Lady  Byron  was  seated,  and, 
mounting  the  box,  officiated  in  his  stead.  At  another  time, 
according  to  the  same  vulgar  rumors,  he  threw  her  ladyship 
into  the  lake  in  front  of  the  Abbey,  where  she  would  have  been 
drowned,  but  for  the  timely  aid  of  the  gardener.  These  stories 
are  doubtless  exaggerations  of  trivial  incidents  which  may 
have  occurred;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  wayward  passions 
of  this  unhappy  man  caused  a  separation  from  his  wife,  and 
finally  spread  a  solitude  around  him.  Being  displeased  at  the 
marriage  of  his  son  and  heir,  he  displayed  an  inveterate  malig 
nity  toward  him.  Not  being  able  to  cut  off  his  succession  to 
the  Abbey  estate,  which  descended  to  him  by  entail,  he  endeav 
ored  to  injure  it  as  much  as  possible,  so  that  it  might  come  a 
mere  wreck  into  his  hands.  For  this  purpose  he  suffered  the 
Abbey  to  fall  out  of  repair,  and  everything  to  go  to  waste 
about  it,  and  cut  down  all  the  timber  on  the  estate,  laying  low 
many  a  tract  of  old  Sherwood  Forest,  so  that  the  Abbey  lands 
lay  stripped  and  bare  of  all  their  ancient  honors.  He  was  baf 
fled  in  his  unnatural  revenge  by  the  premature  death  of  his  son, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  his  deserted  and  dilapi 
dated  halls,  a  gloomy  misanthrope,  brooding  amidst  the  scenes 
he  had  laid  desolate. 

His  wayward  humors  drove  from  him  all  neighborly  society, 
and  for  a  part  of  the  time  he  was  almost  without  domestics. 
In  his  misanthropic  mood,  when  at  variance  with  all  human 
kind,  he  took  to  feeding  crickets,  so  that  in  process  of  tune  the 


58  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Abbey  was  overrun  with  them,  and  its  lonely  halls  made  more 
lonely  at  night  by  their  monotonous  music.  Tradition  adds 
that,  at  his  death,  the  crickets  seemed  aware  that  they  had  lost 
theis  patron  and  protector,  for  they  one  and  all  packed  up  bag 
and  baggage,  and  left  the  Abbey,  trooping  across  its  courts  and 
corridors  in  all  directions. 

The  death  of  the  "  Old  Lord,"  or  "  The  Wicked  Lord  Byron," 
for  he  is  known  by  both  appellations,  occurred  in  1798 ;  and  the 
Abbey  then  passed  into  the  possession  of  the  poet.  The  latter 
was  but  eleven  years  of  age,  and  living  in  humble  style  with 
his  mother  in  Scotland.  They  came  soon  after  to  England,  to 
take  possession.  Moore  gives  a  simple  but  striking  anecdote  of 
the  first  arrival  of  the  poet  at  the  domains  of  his  ancestors. 

They  had  arrived  at  the  Newstead  toll-bar,  and  saw  the 
woods  of  the  Abbey  stretching  out  to  receive  them,  when  Mrs. 
Byron,  affecting  to  be  ignorant  of  the  place,  asked  the  woman 
of  the  toll-house  to  whom  that  seat  belonged?  She  was  told 
that  the  owner  of  it,  Lord  Byron,  had  been  some  months  dead. 
"And  who  is  the  next  heir?"  asked  the  proud  and  happy 
mother.  "  They  say,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "it  is  a  little 
boy  who  lives  at  Aberdeen."  "  And  this  is  he,  bless  him!"  ex 
claimed  the  nurse,  no  longer  able  to  contain  herself,  and  turn 
ing  to  kiss  with  delight  the  young  lord  who  was  seated  on  her 
lap.* 

During  Lord  Byron's  minority,  the  Abbey  was  let  to  Lord 
Groy  de  Euthen,  but  the  poet  visited  it  occasionally  during  the 
Harrow  vacations,  when  he  resided  with  his  mother  at  lodgings 
in  Nottingham.  It  was  treated  little  better  by  its  present  ten 
ant,  than  by  the  old  lord  who  preceded  him ;  so  that  when,  in 
the  autumn  of  1808,  Lord  Byron  took  up  his  abode  there,  it  was 
in  a  ruinous  condition.  The  following  lines  from  his  own  pen 
may  give  some  idea  of  its  condition: 

"  Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead.  the  hollow  winds  whistle, 

Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  once  bloomed  in  the  way. 

"  Of  the  mail-covered  barons  who,  proudly,  to  battle 
Led  thy  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 
The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  wind  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain,  "t 


*  Moore's  Life  of  Lord  Byron. 

t  Lines  on  leaving  Newstead  Abbey. 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  59 

In  another  poem  he  expresses  the  melancholy  feeling  with 
'which  he  took  possession  of  his  ancestral  mansion : 

"  Newstead  1  what  saddening  scene  of  change  is  thine, 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  sure  decay: 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line. 
Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

"  Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray-worn  towers, 
Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  pges  sleep, 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers, 
These— these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

"  Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes, 

Or  gewgaw  grottoes  of  the  vainly  great; 
Yet  lingers  mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate."  * 

Lord  Byron  had  not  fortune  sufficient  to  put  the  pile  in  ex 
tensive  repair,  nor  to  maintain  anything  like  the  state  of  his 
ancestors.  He  restored  some  of  the  apartments,  so  as  to 
furnish  his  mother  with  a  comfortable  habitation,  and  fitted  up 
a  quaint  study  for  himself,  in  which,  among  books  and  busfs, 
and  other  library  furniture,  were  two  skulls  of  the  ancient 
friars,  grinning  on  each  side  of  an  antique  cross.  One  of  his 
gay  companions  gives  a  picture  of  Newstead  when  thus  repaired, 
and  the  picture  is  sufficiently  desolate. 

"  There  are  two  tiers  of  cloisters,  with  a  variety  of  cells  and 
rooms  about  them,  which,  though  not  inhabited,  nor  in  an  in 
habitable  state,  might  easily  be  made  so;  and  many  of  the 
original  rooms,  among  which  is  a  fine  stone  hall,  are  still  in  use. 
Of  the  Abbey  church,  one  end  only  remains;  and  the  old 
kitchen,  with  a  long  range  of  apartments,  is  reduced  to  a 
heap  of  rubbish.  Leading  from  the  Abbey  to  the  modern  part 
of  the  habitation  is  a  noble  room,  seventy  feet  in  length,  and 
twenty-three  in  breadth ;  but  every  part  of  the  house  displays 
neglect  and  decay,  save  those  which  the  present  lord  has  lately 
fitted  up."f 

Even  the  repairs  thus  made  were  but  of  transient  benefit,  for 
the  roof  being  left  in  its  dilapidated  state,  the  rain  soon  pene 
trated  into  the  apartments  which  Lord  Byron  had  restored  and 
decorated,  and  in  a  few  years  rendered  them  almost  as  desolate 
as  the  rest  of  the  Abbey. 

Still  he  felt  a  pride  in  the  ruinous  old  edifice ;  its  very  dreary 
and  dismantled  state,  addressed  itself  to  his  poetical  imagina- 

*  Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey. 

t  Letter  of  the  late  UUttritsi*  Skinner  Mathews,  Esq. 


60  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY- 

tion,  and  to  that  love  of  the  melancholy  and  the  grand  which 
is  evinced  in  all  his  writings.  "Come  what  may,"  said  he  in 
one  of  his  letters,  "Newstead  and  I  stand  or  fall  together.  I 
have  now  lived  on  the  spot.  I  have  fixed  my  heart  upon  it, 
and  no  pressure,  present  or  future,  shall  induce  me  to  barter 
the  last  vestige  of  our  inheritance.  I  have  that  pride  within 
me  which  will  enable  me  to  support  difficulties :  could  I  obtain 
in  exchange  for  Newstead  Abbey,  the  first  fortune  in  the  coun 
try,  I  would  reject  the  proposition. " 

His  residence  at  the  Abbey,  however,  was  fitful  and  uncer 
tain.  He  passed  occasional  portions  of  time  there,  sometimes 
studiously  and  alone,  oftener  idly  and  recklessly,  and  occasion 
ally  with  young  and  gay  companions,  in  riot  and  revelry,  and 
the  indulgence  of  all  kinds  of  mad  caprice.  The  Abbey  was  by 
no  means  benefited  by  these  roystering  inmates,  who  some 
times  played  off  monkish  mummeries  about  the  cloisters,  at 
other  times  turned  the  state  chambers  into  schools  for  boxing 
and  single-stick,  and  shot  pistols  in  the  great  hall.  The  coun 
try  people  of  the  neighborhood  were  as  much  puzzled  by  these 
madcap  vagaries  of  the  new  incumbent,  as  by  the  gloomier 
habits  of  the  "old  lord,"  and  began  to  think  that  madness  was 
inherent  in  the  Byron  race,  or  that  some  wayward  star  ruled 
over  the  Abbey. 

It  is  needless  to  enter  into  a  detail  of  the  circumstances 
which  led  his  Lordship  to  sell  his  ancestral  estate,  notwith 
standing  the  partial  predilections  and  hereditary  feeling  which 
he  had  so  eloquently  expressed.  Fortunately,  it  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  man  who  possessed  something  of  a  poetical  tempera 
ment,  and  who  cherished  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Lord 
Byron.  Colonel  (at  that  time  Major)  Wildman  had  been  a 
schoolmate  of  the  poet,  and  sat  with  him  on  the  same  form  at 
Harrow.  He  had  subsequently  distinguished  himself  in  the 
war  of  the  Peninsula,  and  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  it  was 
a  great  consolation  to  Lord  Byron,  in  parting  with  hip  family 
estate,  to  know  that  it  would  be  held  by  one  capable  of  restor 
ing  its  faded  glories,  and  who  would  respect  and  preserve  all 
the  monuments  and  memorials  of  his  line.* 


*  The  following  letter,  written  in  the  course  of  the  transfer  of  the  estate,  has 
never  been  published: — 

VENICE,  November  18, 1818. 
MY  DEAR  WILDMAN, 

Mr.  Hanson  is  on  the  eve  of  his  return,  so  that  I  have  only  time  to  return  a  few 
inadequate  thanks  for  your  very  kind  letter.    I  should  regret  to  trouble  you  with 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  61 

The  confidence  of  Lord  Byron  in  the  good  feeling  and  good 
taste  of  Colonel  Wildman  has  been  justified  by  the  event. 
Under  his  judicious  eye  and  munificent  hand  the  venerable 
and  romantic  pile  has  risen  from  its  ruins  in  all  its  old  monastic 
and  baronial  splendor,  and  additions  have  been  made  to  it  in 
perfect  conformity  of  style.  The  groves  and  forests  have  been 
replanted;  the  lakes  and  fish-ponds  cleaned  out,  and  the  gar 
dens  rescued  from  the  "hemlock  and  thistle,"  and  restored  to 
their  pristine  and  dignified  formality. 

The  farms  on  the  estate  have  been  put  in  complete  order,  new 
farm-houses  built  of  stone,  in  the  picturesque  and  comfortable 
style  of  the  old  English  granges ;  the  hereditary  tenants  secured 
in  their  paternal  homes,  and  treated  with  the  most  considerate 
indulgence ;  everything,  in  a  word,  gives  happy  indications  of 
a  liberal  and  beneficent  landlord. 

What  most,  however,  will  interest  the  visitors  to  the  Abbey 
in  favor  of  its  present  occupant,  is  the  reverential  care  with 
which  he  has  preserved  and  renovated  every  monument  and 
relic  of  the  Byron  family,  and  every  object  in  anywise  con 
nected  with  the  memory  of  the  poet.  Eighty  thousand  pounds 
have  already  been  expended  upon  the  venerable  pile,  yet  the 
work  is  still  going  on,  and  Newstead  promises  to  realize  the 
hope  faintly  breathed  by  the  poet  when  bidding  it  a  melancholy 
farewell — 

"  Haply  thy  sun  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 
And  bless  thy  future,  as  thy  former  day." 


any  requests  of  mine,  in  regard  to  the  preservation  of  any  signs  of  my  family,  which 
may  still  exist  at  Newstead,  and  leave  everything  of  that  kind  to  your  own  feelings, 
present  or  future,  upon  the  subject.  The  portrait  which  you  flatter  me  by  desiring, 
would  not  be  worth  to  you  your  trouble  and  expense  of  such  an,  expedition,  but 
you  may  rely  upon  having  the  very  first  that  may  be  painted,  and  which  may  seem 
worth  your  acceptance. 

I  trust  that  Newstead  will,  being  yours,  remain  so,  and  that  it  may  see  you  as 
happy,  as  I  am  very  sure  that  you  will  make  your  dependents.  With  regard  to 
myself,  you  may  be  sure  that  whether  in  the  fourth,  or  fifth,  or  sixth  form  at  Har 
row,  or  in  the  fluctuations  of  after  life,  I  shall  always  remember  with  regard  my 
old  schoolfellow— fellow  monitor,  and  friend,  and  recognize  with  respect  the  gal 
lant  soldier,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of  fortune  and  allurements  of  youth  to  a 
life  of  pleasure,  devoted  himself  to  duties  of  a  nobler  order,  and  will  receive  his 
r*ward  in  the  esteem  and  admiration  of  his  country. 

Ever  yours  most  truly  and  affectionately, 

BYRON. 


62  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


AEEIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY. 

I  HAD  been  passing  a  merry  Christmas  in  the  good  old  style 
at  Barlboro'  Hall,  a  venerable  family  mansion  in  Derbyshire, 
and  set  off  to  finish  the  holidays  with  the  hospitable  proprietor 
of  Newstead  Abbey.  A  drive  of  seventeen  miles  through  a 
pleasant  country,  part  of  it  the  storied  region  of  Sherwood 
Forest,  brought  me  to  the  gate  of  Newstead  Park.  The  aspect 
of  the  park  was  by  no  means  imposing,  the  fine  old  trees  that 
once  adorned  it  having  been  laid  low  by  Lord  Byron's  wayward 
predecessor. 

Entering  the  gate,  the  postchaise  rolled  heavily  along  a  sandy 
road,  between  naked  declivities,  gradually  descending  into  one 
of  those  gentle  and  sheltered  valleys,  in  which  the  sleek  monks 
of  old  loved  to  nestle  themselves.  Here  a  sweep  of  the  road 
round  an  angle  of  a  garden  wall  brought  us  full  in  front  of  the 
venerable  edifice,  embosomed  in  the  valley,  with  a  beautiful 
sheet  of  water  spreading  out  before  it. 

The  irregular  gray  pile,  of  motley  architecture,  answered  to 
the  description  given  by  Lord  Byron: 

"  An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,  of  a  rich  and  rare 
Mixed  Gothic" 

One  end  was  fortified  by  a  castellated  tower,  bespeaking  the 
baronial  and  warlike  days  of  the  edifice ;  the  other  end  main 
tained  its  primitive  monastic  character.  A  ruined  chapel, 
flanked  by  a  solemn  grove,  still  reared  its  front  entire.  It  is 
true,  the  threshold  of  the  once  frequented  portal  was  grass- 
grown,  and  the  great  lancet  window,  once  glorious  with  painted 
glass,  was  now  entwined  and  overhung  with  ivy ;  but  the  old 
convent  cross  still  braved  both  time  and  tempest  on  the  pinna 
cle  of  the  chapel,  and  below,  the  blessed  effigies  of  the  Virgin 
and  child,  sculptured  in  gray  stone,  remained  uninjured  in 
their  niche,  giving  a  sanctified  aspect  to  the  pile.* 

A  flight  of  rooks,  tenants  of  the  adjacent  grove,  were  hover 
ing  about  the  ruin,  and  balancing  themselves  upon  every  airy 

*  " in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 

The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  child 
With  her  son  in  her  blepsod  arms,  looked  round. 

Spared  by  some  chance,  when  all  beside  was  spoU'd: 
She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground." — DON  JUAH,  Canto  m, 


ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY.  63 

projection,  and  looked  down  with  curious  eye  and  cawed  as 
the  postchaise  rattled  along  below. 

The  chamberlain  of  the  Abbey,  a  most  decorous  personage, 
dressed  in  black,  received  us  at  the  portal.  Here,  too,  we 
encountered  a  memento  of  Lord  Byron,  a  great  black  and 
white  Newfoundland  dog,  that  had  accompanied  his  remains 
from  Greece.  He  was  descended  from  the  famous  Boatswain, 
and  inherited  his  generous  qualities.  He  was  a  cherished  in 
mate  of  the  Abbey,  and  honored  and  caressed  by  every  visitor. 
Conducted  by  the  chamberlain,  and  followed  by  the  dog,  wha 
assisted  in  doing  the  honors  of  the  house,  we  passed  through  a 
long  low  vaulted  hall,  supported  by  massive  Gothic  arches,  and 
not  a  little  resembling  the  crypt  of  a  cathedral,  being  the  base 
ment  story  of  the  Abbey. 

From  this  we  ascended  a  stone  staircase,  at  the  head  of  which 
a  pair  of  folding  doors  admitted  us  into  a  broad  corridor  that 
ran  round  the  interior  of  the  Abbey.  The  windows  of  the  cor 
ridor  looked  into  a  quadrangular  grass-grown  court,  forming  the 
hollow  centre  of  the  pile.  In  the  midst  of  it  rose  a  lofty  and 
fantastic  fountain,  wrought  of  the  same  gray  stone  as  the  main 
edifice,  and  which  has  been  well  described  by  Lord  Byron. 

"Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd, 

Symmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carvings  quaint, 
Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 
The  spring  rush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite  made, 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 
Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles."* 

Around  this  quadrangle  were  low  vaulted  cloisters,  with 
Gothic  arches,  once  the  secluded  walks  of  the  monks :  the  cor 
ridor  along  which  we  were  passing  was  built  above  these  clois 
ters,  and  their  hollow  arches  seemed  to  reverberate  every  foot 
fall.  Everything  thus  far  had  a  solemn  monastic  air;  but,  on 
arriving  at  an  angle  of  the  corridor,  the  eye,  glancing  along  a 
shadowy  gallery,  caught  a  sight  of  two  dark  figures  in  plate 
armor,  with  closed  visors,  bucklers  braced,  and  swords  drawn, 
standing  motionless  against  the  wall.  They  seemed  two  phan 
toms  of  the  chivalrous  era  of  the  Abbey. 

Here  the  chamberlain,  throwing  open  a  folding  door,  ushered 
us  at  once  into  a  spacious  and  lofty  saloon,  which  offered  a 
brilliant  contrast  to  the  quaint  and  sombre  apartments  we  had 

*  DON  JOAN,  Canto  HI. 


64  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

traversed.  It  was  elegantly  furnished,  and  the  walls  hung 
with  paintings,  yet  something  of  its  original  architecture  hat1 
been  preserved  and  hlended  with  modern  embellishments. 
There  "wtere  the  stone-shafted  casements  and  the  deep  bow- 
window  of  former  times.  The  carved  and  panelled  wood- work 
of  the  lofty  ceiling  had  likewise  been  carefully  restored,  and 
its  Gothic  and  grotesque  devices  painted  and  gilded  in  then- 
ancient  style. 

Here,  too,  were  emblems  of  the  former  and  latter  days  of  the 
Abbey,  in  the  effigies  of  the  first  and  last  of  the  Byron  line  that 
held  sway  over  its  destinies.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  saloon, 
above  the  door,  the  dark  Gothic  portrait  of  "  Sir  John  Byron 
the  Little  with  the  great  Beard,"  looked  grimly  down  from  hit, 
canvas,  while,  at  the  opposite  end,  a  white  marble  bust  of  the 
genius  loci,  the  noble  poet,  shone  conspicuously  from  its 
pedestal. 

The  whole  air  and  style  of  the  apartment  partook  more  of 
the  palace  than  the  monastery,  and  its  windows  looked  forth 
on  a  suitable  prospect,  composed  of  beautiful  groves,  smooth 
verdant  lawns,  and  silver  sheets  of  water.  Below  the  windows 
was  a  small  flower-garden,  inclosed  by  stone  balustrades,  on 
which  were  stately  peacocks,  sunning  themselves  and  display 
ing  the;r  plumage.  About  the  grass-plots  in  front,  were  gay 
cock  pheasants,  and  plump  partridges,  and  nimble-footed  water 
hens,  feeding  almost  in  perfect  security. 

Such  was  the  medley  of  objects  presented  to  the  eye  on  first 
visiting  the  Abbey,  and  I  found  the  interior  fully  to  answer 
the  description  of  the  poet — 

"  The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 

With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 
Elsewhere  preserved ;  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 

The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween; 
An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 

Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene; 
The  rest  had  been  ref  ormed,  replaced,  or  sunk, 
And  spoke  more  of  the  friar  than  the  monk. 

"  Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  joined 

By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Might  shock  a  connoisseur;  but  when  combined 

Formed  a  whole,  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  were  in  their  hearts." 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  lay  open  the  scenes  of  domestic  lif  e 
at  the  Abbey,  nor  to  describe  the  festivities  of  which  I  was  a 


ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY.  65 

partaker  during  my  sojourn  within  its  hospitable  walls.  I 
wish  merely  to  present  a  picture  of  the  edifice  itself,  and  of 
those  personages  and  circumstances  about  it,  connected  with 
the  memory  of  Byron. 

I  forbear,  therefore,  to  dwell  on  my  reception  by  my  excel 
lent  and  amiable  host  and  hostess,  or  to  make  my  reader  ac 
quainted  with  the  elegant  inmates  of  the  mansion  that  I  met  in 
the  saloon ;  and  I  shall  pass  on  at  once  with  him  to  the  cham 
ber  allotted  me,  and  to  which  I  was  most  respectfully  con 
ducted  by  the  chamberlain. 

It  was  one  of  a  magnificent  suite  of  rooms,  extending  between 
the  court  of  the  cloisters  and  the  Abbey  garden,  the  windows 
looking  into  the  latter.  The  whole  suite  formed  the  ancient 
state  apartment,  and  had  fallen  into  decay  during  the  neglected 
days  of  the  Abbey,  so  as  to  be  in  a  ruinous  condition  in  the 
time  of  Lord  Byron.  It  had  since  been  restored  to  its  ancient 
splendor,  of  which  my  chamber  may  be  cited  as  a  specimen. 
It  was  lofty  and  well  proportioned ;  the  lower  part  of  the  walls 
was  panelled  with  ancient  oak,  the  upper  part  hung  with  gobe 
lin  tapestry,  representing  oriental  hunting  scenes,  wherein  the 
figures  were  of  the  size  of  lif  e,  and  of  great  vivacity  of  attitude 
and  color. 

The  furniture  was  antique,  dignified,  and  cumbrous.  High- 
backed  chairs  curiously  carved,  and  wrought  in  needlework ; 
a  massive  clothes-press  of  dark  oak,  well  polished,  and  inlaid 
with  landscapes  of  various  tinted  woods ;  a  bed  of  state,  ample 
and  lofty,  so  as  only  to  be  ascended  by  a  movable  flight  of 
steps,  the  huge  posts  supporting  a  high  tester  with  a  tuft  of 
crimson  plumes  at  each  corner,  and  rich  curtains  of  crim 
son  damask  hanging  in  broad  and  heavy  folds. 

A  venerable  mirror  of  plate  glass  stood  on  the  toilet,  in  which 
belles  of  former  centuries  may  have  contemplated  and  deco 
rated  their  charms.  The  floor  of  the  chamber  was  of  tesse- 
lated  oak,  shining  with  wax,  and  partly  covered  by  a  Turkey 
carpet.  In  the  centre  stood  a  massy  oaken  table,  waxed  and 
polished  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  furnished  with  a  writing-desk 
of  perfumed  rosewood. 

A  sober  light  was  admitted  into  the  room  through  Gothic 
stone-shafted  casements,  partly  shaded  by  crimson  curtains, 
and  partly  overshadowed  by  the  trees  of  the  garden.  This 
solemnly  tempered  light  added  to  the  effect  of  the  stately  and 
antiquated  interior. 

Two  portraits,  suspended  over  the  doors,  were  in  keeping 


66  NEW8TEAD  ASSET. 

with  the  scene.  They  were  in  ancient  Vandyke  dresses ;  one 
was  a  cavalier,  who  may  have  occupied  this  apartment  in  days 
of  yore,  the  other  was  a  lady  with  a  black  velvet  mask  in  her 
hand,  who  may  once  have  arrayed  herself  for  conquest  at  the 
very  mirror  I  have  described. 

The  most  curious  relic  of  old  times,  however,  in  this  quaint 
but  richly  dight  apartment,  was  a  great  chimney-piece  of 
panel-work,  carved  in  high  relief,  with  niches  or  compartments, 
each  containing  a  human  bust,  that  protruded  almost  entirely 
from  the  wall.  Some  of  the  figures  were  in  ancient  Gothic 
garb ;  the  most  striking  among  them  was  a  female,  who  was 
earnestly  regarded  by  a  fierce  Saracen  from  an  adjoining  niche. 

This  panel-work  is  among  the  mysteries  of  the  Abbey, 
and  causes  as  much  wide  speculation  as  the  Egyptian  hiero 
glyphics.  Some  suppose  it  to  illustrate  an  adventure  in 
the  Holy  Land,  and  that  the  lady  in  effigy  had  been  rescued  by 
some  Crusader  of  the  family  from  the  turbaned  Turk  who 
watches  her  so  earnestly.  What  tends  to  give  weight  to  these 
suppositions  is,  that  similar  pieces  of  panel-work  exist  in  other 
parts  of  the  Abbey,  in  all  of  which  are  to  be  seen  the  Chris 
tian  lady  and  her  Saracen  guardian  or  lover.  At  the  bot 
tom  of  these  sculptures  are  emblazoned  the  armorial  bearings 
of  the  Byrons 

I  shall  not  detain  the  reader,  however,  with  any  further 
description  of  my  apartment,  or  of  the  mysteries  connected 
with  it.  As  he  is  to  pass  some  days  with  me  at  the  Abbey, 
we  shall  have  time  to  examine  the  old  edifice  at  our  leisure, 
and  to  make  ourselves  acquainted,  not  merely  with  its  interior, 
but  likewise  with  its  environs. 


THE  ABBEY  GAKDEN. 

THE  morning  after  my  arrival,  I  rose  at  an  early  hour.  The 
daylight  was  peering  brightly  between  the  window  curtains, 
and  drawing  them  apart,  I  gazed  through  the  Gothic  casement 
upon  a  scene  that  accorded  in  character  with  the  interior  of  the 
ancient  mansion.  It  was  the  old  Abbey  garden,  but  altered  to 
suit  the  tastes  of  different  times  and  occupants.  In  one  direc 
tion  were  shady  walls  and  alleys,  broad  terraces  and  lofty 
groves;  in  another,  beneatn  n  gray  monastic-looking  angle  of 


THE  ABBEY  GARDEN.  67 

the  edifice,  overrun  with  ivy  and  surmounted  by  a  cross,  lay  a 
small  French  garden,  with  formal  flower-pots,  gravel  walks, 
and  stately  stone  balustrades. 

The  beauty  of  the  morning,  and  the  quiet  of  the  hour, 
tempted  me  to  an  early  stroll ;  for  it  is  pleasant  to  enjoy  such 
old-time  places  alone,  when  one  may  indulge  poetical  reveries, 
and  spin  cobweb  fancies,  without  interruption.  Dressing  my 
self,  therefore,  with  all  speed,  I  descended  a  small  flight  of  steps 
irom  the  state  apartment  into  the  long  corridor  over  the  clois 
ters,  along  which  I  passed  to  a  door  at  the  farther  end.  Here  I. 
emerged  into  the  open  air,  and,  descending  another  flight  of 
stone  steps,  found  myself  in  the  centre  of  what  had  once  been 
the  Abbey  chapel. 

Nothing  of  the  sacred  edifice  remained,  however,  but  the 
Gothic  front,  with  its  deep  portal  and  grand  lancet  window, 
already  described.  The  nave,  the  side  walls,  the  choir,  the  sa 
cristy,  all  had  disappeared.  The  open  sky  was  over  my  head, 
a  smooth  shaven  grass-plot  beneath  my  feet.  Gravel  walks 
and  shrubberies  had  succeeded  to  the  shadowy  isles,  and  stately 
ti^es  to  the  clustering  columns. 

"  Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 

The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguished  clay, 
In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 
Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 

Soon  as  the  gloaming  spreads  her  warning  shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  paid." 

Instead  of  the  matin  orisons  of  the  monks,  however,  the 
ruined  walls  of  the  chapel  now  resounded  to  the  cawing  of  in 
numerable  rooks  that  were  fluttering  and  hovering  about  the 
dark  grove  which  they  inhabited,  and  preparing  for  their  morn 
ing  flight. 

My  ramble  led  me  along  quiet  alleys,  bordered  by  shrubbery, 
where  the  solitary  water-hen  would  now  and  then  scud  across 
my  path,  and  take  refuge  among  the  bushes.  From  hence  I 
entered  upon  a  broad  terraced  walk,  once  a  favorite  resort  of 
the  friars,  which  extended  the  whole  length  of  the  old  Abbey 
garden,  passing  along  the  ancient  stone  wall  which  bounded  it, 
In  the  centre  of  the  garden  lay  one  of  the  monkish  fish-pools, 
an  oblong  sheet  of  water,  deep  set  like  a  mirror,  in  green  slop 
ing  banks  of  turf.  In  its  glassy  bosom  was  reflected  the  dark 
mass  of  a  neighboring  grove,  one  of  the  most  important 
features  of  the  garden.  - 


68  NBWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

This  grove  goes  by  the  sinister  name  of  "the  Devil's  Wood," 
and  enjoys  but  an  equivocal  character  in  the  neighborhood.  It 
was  planted  by  "The  Wicked  Lord  Byron,"  during  the  early 
part  of  his  residence  at  the  Abbey,  before  his  fatal  duel  with 
Mr.  Chaworth.  Having  something  of  a  foreign  and  classical 
taste,  he  set  up  leaden  statues  of  satyrs  or  fauns  at  each  end  of 
the  grove.  The  statues,  like  everything  else  about  the  old 
Lord,  fell  under  the  suspicion  and  obloquy  that  overshadowed 
him  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  The  country  people,  who 
knew  nothing  of  heathen  mythology  and  its  sylvan  deities, 
looked  with  horror  at  idols  invested  with  the  diabolical  attri 
butes  of  horns  and  cloven  feet.  They  probably  supposed  them 
some  object  of  secret  worship  of  the  gloomy  and  secluded 
misanthrope  and  reputed  murderer,  and  gave  them  the  name 
of  "The  old  Lord's  Devils." 

I  penetrated  the  recesses  of  the  mystic  grove.  There 
stood  the  ancient  and  much  slandered  statues,  overshadowed 
by  tall  larches,  and  stained  by  dank  green  mold.  It  is  not  a 
matter  of  surprise  that  strange  figures,  thus  behoof  ed  and  be- 
horned,  and  set  up  in  a  gloomy  grove,  should  perplex  the  minds 
of  the  simple  and  superstitious  yeomanry.  There  are  many  of 
the  tastes  and  caprices  of  the  rich,  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  un 
educated  must  savor  of  insanity. 

I  was  attracted  to  this  grove,  however,  by  memorials  of  a 
more  touching  character.  It  had  been  one  of  the  favorite 
haunts  of  the  late  Lord  Byron.  In  his  farewell  visit  to  the 
Abbey,  after  he  had  parted  with  the  possession  of  it,  ne  passed 
some  time  in  this  grove,  in  company  with  his  sister ;  and  as  a 
last  memento,  engraved  their  names  on  the  bark  of  a  tree. 

The  feelings  that  agitated  his  bosom  during  this  farewell 
visit,  when  he  beheld  round  him  objects  dear  to  his  pride,  and 
dear  to  his  juvenile  recollections,  but  of  which  the  narrowness 
of  his  fortune  would  not  permit  him  to  retain  possession,  may 
be  gathered  from  a  passage  in  a  poetical  epistle,  written  to  his 
sister  in  after  years:  .  •' 

I  did  remind  you  of  our  own  dear  lake 

By  the  old  hall,  which  may  be  mine  no  more; 
Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore: 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  mak*) 

Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  uelore; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign 'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 


THE  ABBEJ  QAEDEN.  69 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 
In  happy  childhood ;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks. 

Which  Jo  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 

Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 
My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks; 

And  even  at  moments  I  would  think  I  see 

Some  living  things  I  love— but  none  like  thee." 

I  searched  the  grove  for  some  time,  before  I  found  the  tree 
on  which  Lord  Byron  had  left  his  frail  memorial.  It  was  an 
elm  of  peculiar  form,  having  two  trunks,  which  sprang  from 
the  same  root,  and,  after  growing  side  by  side,  mingled  their 
branches  together.  He  had  selected  it,  doubtless,  as  em 
blematical  of  his  sister  and  himself.  The  names  of  BYRON  and 
AUGUSTA  were  still  visible.  They  had  been  deeply  cut  in  the 
bark,  but  the  natural  growth  of  the  tree  was  gradually  render 
ing  them  illegible,  and  a  few  years  hence,  strangers  will  seek 
in  vain  for  this  record  of  fraternal  affection. 

Leaving  the  grove,  I  continued  my  ramble  along  a  spacious 
terrace,  overlooking  what  had  once  been  the  kitchen  garden  of 
the  Abbey.  Below  me  lay  the  monks'  stew,  or  fish  pond,  a 
dark  pool,  overhung  by  gloomy  cypresses,  with  a  solitary 
water-hen  swimming  about  in  it. 

A  little  farther  on,  and  the  terrace  looked  down  upon  the 
stately  scene  on  the  south  side  of  the  Abbey ;  the  flower  garden, 
with  its  stone  balustrades  and  stately  peacocks,  the  lawn,  with 
its  pheasants  and  partridges,  and  the  soft  valley  of  Newstead 
beyond. 

At  a  distance,  on  the  border  of  the  lawn,  stood  another  me 
mento  of  Lord  Byron ;  an  oak  planted  by  him  in  his  boyhood, 
on  his  first  visit  to  the  Abbey.  With  a  superstitious  feeling  in 
herent  in  him,  he  linked  his  own  destiny  with  that  of  the  tre3. 
1-As  it  fares,"  said  he,  "so  will  fare  my  fortunes."  Several 
vears  elapsed,  many  of  them  passed  in  idleness  and  dissipation. 
1e  returned  to  the  Abbey  a  youth  scarce  grown  to  manhood, 
but,  as  he  thought,  with  vices  and  folh'es  beyond  his  years.  He 
found  his  emblem  oak  almost  choked  by  weeds  and  brambles, 
and  took  the  lesson  to  himself. 

41  Young  oak,  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine, 
That  thy  dark  waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 

And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 
"  Such,  such  was  my  hope — when  in  infancy's  years 

On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  reared  thee  with  pride; 
They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears — 
Thv  decay  not  the  w««ds  that  surround  thee  can  hide." 


70  NEWSTEAD  ABBE7. 

I  leaned  over  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  and  gazed 
upon  the  valley  of  Newstead,  with  its  silver  sheets  of  water 
gleaming  in  the  morning  sun.  It  was  a  sabbath  morning, 
which  always  seems  to  have  a  hallowed  influence  over  the  land 
scape,  probably  from  the  quiet  of  the  day,  and  the  cessation  of 
all  kinds  of  week-day  labor.  As  I  mused  upon  the  mild  and 
beautiful  scene,  and  the  wayward  destinies  of  the  man,  whose 
stormy  temperament  forced  him  from  this  tranquil  paradise  to 
battle  with  the  passions  and  perils  of  the  world,  the  sweet 
chime  of  bells  from  a  village  a  few  miles  distant  came  stealing 
up  the  valley.  Every  sight  and  sound  this  morning  seemed 
calculated  to  summon  up  touching  recollections  of  poor  Byron. 
The  chime  was  from  the  village  spire  of  HucknaJl  Torkard,  be 
neath  which  his  remains  lie  buried  1 

1  have  since  visited  his  tomb.  It  is  in  an  old  gray 

country  church,  venerable  with  the  lapse  of  centuries.  He  lies 
buried  beneath  the  pavement,  at  one  end  of  the  principal  aisle. 
A  light  falls  on  the  spot  through  the  stained  glass  of  a  Gothic 
window,  and  a  tablet  on  the  adjacent  wall  announces  the 
family  vault  of  the  Byrons.  It  had  been  the  wayward  inten 
tion  of  the  poet  to  be  entombed,  with  his  faithful  dog,  in  the 
monument  erected  by  him  in  the  garden  of  Newstead  Abbey. 
Pip  executors  showed  better  judgment  and  feeling,  in  consign 
ing  his  ashes  to  the  family  sepulchre,  to  mingle  with  those  of 
his  mother  and  his  kindred.  Here, 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well. 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further  1" 

How  nearly  did  his  dying  hour  realize  the  wish  made  by 
him,  but  a  few  years  previously,  in  one  of  his  fitful  moods  of 
melancholy  and  misanthropy: 

"  When  time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 

The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 
Oblivion!  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed  1 

**  No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coining  blow: 
No  maiden  with  dishevelled  hair, 
To  feel,  or  fein  decorous  woe, 

•  But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 

With  no  officious  mourners  near: 
I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  tear." 


PLOUGH  MONDAY.  71 

He  died  among  strangers,  in  a  foreign  land,  without  a  kindred 
hand  to  close  his  eyes ;  yet  he  did  not  die  unwept.  With  all 
his  faults  and  errors,  and  passions  and  caprices,  he  had  the  gift 
of  attaching  Ms  humble  dependents  warmly  to  him.  One  of 
them,  a  poor  Greek,  accompanied  his  remains  to  England,  and 
followed  them  to  the  grave.  I  am  told  that,  during  the  cere 
mony,  he  stood  nolding  on  hy  a  pew  in  an  agony  of  grief,  and 
when  all  was  over,  seemed  as  if  he  would  have  gone  down  into 
the  tomb  with  the  body  of  his  master. — A  nature  that  could  in 
spire  such  attachments,  must  have  been  generous  and  benefi 
cent. 


PLOUGH  MONDAY. 

SHERWOOD  FOREST  is  a  region  that  still  retains  much  of  the 
quaint  customs  and  holiday  games  of  the  olden  time.  A  day 
or  two  after  my  arrival  at  the  Abbey,  as  I  was  walking  in  the 
cloisters,  I  heard  the  sound  of  rustic  music,  and  now  und  then 
a  burst  of  merriment,  proceeding  from  the  interior  of  the  man 
sion.  Presently  the  chamberlain  came  and  informed  me  that 
a  party  of  country  lads  were  in  the  servants'  hall,  performing 
Plough  Monday  antics,  and  invited  me  to  witness  their  mum 
mery.  I  gladly  assented,  for  I  am  somewhat  curious  about 
these  relics  of  popular  usages.  The  servants'  hall  was  a  fit 
place  for  the  exhibition  of  an  old  Gothic  game.  It  was  a 
chamber  of  great  extent,  which  in  monkish  times  had  been  the 
refectory  of  the  Abbey.  A  row  of  massive  columns  extended 
lengthwise  through  the  centre,  whence  sprung  Gothic  arches, 
supporting  the  low  vaulted  ceiling.  Here  was  a  set  of  rustics 
dressed  up  in  something  of  the  style  represented  in  the  books 
concerning  popular  antiquities.  One  was  in  a  rough  garb  of 
frieze,  with  his  head  muffled  in  bear-skin,  and  a  bell  dangling 
behind  him,  that  jingled  at  every  movement.  He  was  the  clown, 
or  fool  of  the  party,  probably  a  traditional  representative  of 
the  ancient  satyr.  The  rest  were  decorated  with  ribbons  and 
armed  with  wooden  swords.  The  leader  of  the  troop  recited 
the  old  ballad  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  which  had  been 
current  among  the  country  people  for  ages-,  his  companions 
accompanied  the  recitation  with  some  rude  attempt  at  acting, 
while  the  clown  cut  all  kinds  of  antics. 

To  these  succeeded  a  set  of  morris-dancers,  gayly  dressed  up 


72  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

with  ribbons  and  hawks'-bells.  In  this  troop  we  had  Robin 
Hood  and  Maid  Marian,  the  latter  represented  by  a  smooth 
faced  boy ;  also  Beelzebub,  equipped  with  a  broom,  and  accom 
panied  by  his  wife  Bessy,  a  termagant  old  beldame.  These 
rude  pageants  are  the  lingering  remains  of  the  old  customs  of 
Plough  Monday,  when  bands  of  rustics,  fantastically  dressed, 
and  furnished  with  pipe  and  tabor,  dragged  what  was  called 
the  "fool  plough''  from  house  to  house,  singing  ballads  and  per 
forming  antics,  for  which  they  were  rewarded  with  money  and 
good  cheer. 

But  it  is  not  in  "merry  Sherwood  Forest"  alone  that  these 
remnants  of  old  times  prevail.  They  are  to  be  met  with  in 
most  of  the  counties  north  of  the  Trent,  which  classic  stream 
seems  to  be  the  boundary  line  of  primitive  customs.  During 
my  recent  Christmas  sojourn  at  Barlboro'  Hall,  on  the  skirts  of 
Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire,  I  had  witnessed  many  of  the  rustic 
festivities  peculiar  to  that  joyous  season,  which  have  rashly 
been  pronounced  obsolete,  by  those  who  draw  their  experience 
merely  from  city  lif e.  I  had  seen  the  great  Yule  log  put  on  the 
fire  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  wassail  bowl  sent  round,  brim 
ming  with  its  spicy  beverage.  I  had  heard  carols  beneath  my 
window  by  the  choristers  of  the  neighboring  village,  who  went 
their  rounds  about  the  ancient  Hall  at  midnight,  according  to 
immemorial  custom.  We  had  mummers  and  mimers  too,  with 
the  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  and  other  ballads  and 
traditional  dialogues,  together  with  the  famous  old  interlude  of 
the  Hobby  Horse,  all  represented  in  the  antechamber  and  ser- 
^ants'  hall  by  rustics,  who  inherited  the  custom  and  the  poetry 
from  preceding  generations. 

The  boar's  head,  crowned  with  rosemary,  had  taken  its  hon 
ored  station  among  the  Christmas  cheer ;  the  festal  board  had 
been  attended  by  glee  singers  and  minstrels  from  the  village  to 
entertain  the  company  with  hereditary  songs  and  catches  dur 
ing  their  repast ;  and  the  old  Pyrrhic  game  of  the  sword  dance, 
handed  down  since  the  time  of  the  Romans,  was  admirably 
performed  in  the  court-yard  of  the  mansion  by  a  band  of  young 
men,  lithe  and  supple  in  their  forms  and  graceful  in  their 
movements,  who,  I  was  told,  went  the  rounds  of  the  villages 
and  country-seats  during  the  Christmas  holidays. 

I  specify  these  rural  pageants  and  ceremonials,  which  I  saw 
during  my  sojourn  in  this  neighborhood,  because  it  has  been 
deemed  that  some  of  the  anecdotes  of  holiday  customs  given  in 
my  preceding  writings,  related  to  usages  which  have  entirely 


OLD  SERVANTS.  73 

passed  away.  Critics  who  reside  in  cities  have  little  idea  of  the 
primitive  manners  and  observances,  which  still  prevail  in  re 
mote  and  rural  neighborhoods. 

In  fact,  in  crossing  the  Trent  one  seems  to  step  back  into  old 
times ;  and  in  the  villages  of  Sherwood  Forest  we  are  in  a  black- 
letter  region.  The  moss-green  cottages,  the  lowly  mansions  of 
gray  stone,  the  Gothic  crosses  at  each  end  of  the  villages,  and 
the  tall  Maypole  in  the  centre,  transport  us  in  imagination  to 
foregone  centuries;  everything  has  a  quaint  and  antiquated 
air. 

The  tenantry  on  the  Abbey  estate  partake  of  this  primitive 
character.  Some  of  the  families  have  rented  farms  there  for 
nearly  three  hundred  years;  and,  notwithstanding  that  their 
mansions  fell  to  decay,  and  every  thing  about  them  partook  of 
the  general  waste  and  misrule  of  the  Byron  dynasty,  yet  noth 
ing  could  uproot  them  from  their  native  soil.  I  am  happy  to 
say,  that  Colonel  Wildman  has  taken  these  stanch  loyal  fami 
lies  under  his  peculiar  care.  He  has  favored  them  in  their 
rents,  repaired,  or  rather  rebuilt  their  farm-houses,  and  has 
enabled  families  that  had  almost  sunk  into  the  class  of  mere 
rustic  laborers,  once  more  to  hold  up  their  heads  among  the 
yeomanry  of  the  land. 

I  visited  one  of  these  renovated  establishments  that  had  but 
lately  been  a  mere  ruin,  and  now  was  a  substantial  grange.  It 
was  inhabited  by  a  young  couple.  The  good  woman  showed 
every  part  of  the  establishment  with  decent  pride,  exulting  in 
its  comfort  and  respectability.  Her  husband,  I  understood, 
had  risen  in  consequence  with  the  improvement  of  his  man 
sion,  and  now  began  to  be  known  among  his  rustic  neighbors 
by  the  appellation  of  "the  young  Squire." 


OLD  SERVANTS. 

IN  an  old,  time-worn,  and  mysterious  looking  mansion  like 
Newstead  Abbey,  and  one  so  haunted  by  monkish,  and  feudal, 
and  poetical  associations,  it  is  a  prize  to  meet  with  some  ancient 
crone,  who  has  passed  a  long  life  about  the  place,  so  as  to  have 
become  a  living  chronicle  of  its  fortunes  and  vicissitudes.  Such 
a  one  is  Nanny  Smith,  a  worthy  dame,  near  seventy  years  of 
age,  who  for  a  long  time  served  as  housekeeper  to  the  Byrons. 


74  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

The  Abbey  and  its  domains  comprise  her  world,  beyond  which 
she  knows  nothing,  but  within  which  she  has  ever  conducted 
herself  with  native  shrewdness  and  old-fashioned  honesty. 
When  Lord  Byron  sold  the  Abbey  her  vocation  was  at  an  end, 
still  she  lingered  about  the  place,  having  for  it  the  local  attach 
ment  of  a  cat.  Abandoning  her  comfortable  housekeeper's 
apartment,  she  took  shelter  in  one  of  the  "  rock  houses, "  which 
are  nothing  more  than  a  little  neighborhood  of  cabins,  exca 
vated  in  the  perpendicular  walls  of  a  stone  quarry,  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  Abbey.  Three  cells  cut  in  the  living  rock, 
formed  her  dwelling ;  these  she  fitted  up  humbly  but  comforta 
bly  ;  her  son  William  labored  in  the  neighborhood,  and  aided 
to  support  her,  and  Nanny  Smith  maintained  a  cheerful  aspect 
and  an  independent  spirit.  One  of  her  gossips  suggested  to  her 
that  William  should  marry,  and  bring  home  a  young  wife  to 
help  her  and  take  care  of  her.  "Nay,  nay,"  replied  Nanny, 
tartly,  "I  want  no  young  mistress  in  my  'house.'1''  So  much  for 
the  love  of  rule — poor  Nanny's  house  was  a  hole  in  a  rock  1 

Colonel  Wildman,  on  taking  possession  of  the  Abbey,  found 
Nanny  Smith  thus  humbly  nestled.  With  that  active  benevo 
lence  which  characterizes  him,  he  immediately  set  William  up 
hi  a  small  farm  on  the  estate,  where  Nanny  Smith  has  a  com 
fortable  mansion  in  her  old  days.  Her  pride  is  roused  by  her 
son's  advancement.  She  remarks  with  exultation  that  people 
treat  William  with  much  more  respect  now  that  he  is  a  farmer, 
than  they  did  when  he  was  a  laborer.  A  farmer  of  the  neigh 
borhood  has  even  endeavored  to  make  a  match  between  him 
and  his  sister,  but  Nanny  Smith  has  grown  fastidious,  and  in 
terfered.  The  girl,  she  said,  was  too  old  for  her  son,  besides, 
she  did  not  see  that  he  was  in  any  need  of  a  wife. 

"No,"  said  William,  "I  ha'  no  great  mind  to  marry  the 
wench :  but  if  the  Colonel  and  his  lady  wish  it,  I  am  willing. 
They  have  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  should  think  it  my  duty 
to  please  them."  The  Colonel  and  his  lady,  however,  have 
not  thought  proper  to  put  honest  William's  gratitude  to  so 
severe  a  test. 

Another  worthy  whom  Colonel  Wildman  found  vegetating 
upon  the  place,  and  who  had  lived  there  for  at  least  sixty  years, 
was  old  Joe  Murray.  He  had  come  there  when  a  mere  boy  in 
the  train  of  the  "  old  lord,"  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
and  had  continued  with  him  until  his  death.  Having  been  a 
cabin  boy  when  very  young,  Joe  always  fancied  himself  a  bit 
of  a  sailor,  and  had  charge  of  all  the  pleasure-boats  on  the  lake, 


OLD  SERVANTS.  75 

though  he  afterward  rose  to  the  dignity  of  butler.  In  the 
latter  days  of  the  old  Lord  Byron,  when  he  shut  himself  up 
from  all  the  world,  Joe  Murray  was  the  only  servant  retained 
by  him,  excepting  his  housekeeper,  Betty  Hardstaff ,  who  was 
reputed  to  have  an  undue  sway  over  him,  and  was  derisively 
called  Lady  Betty  among  the  country  folk. 

When  the  Abbey  came  into  the  possession  of  the  late  Lord 
Byron,  Joe  Murray  accompanied  it  as  a  fixture.  He  was  re 
instated  as  butler  in  the  Abbey,  and  high  admiral  on  the  lake, 
and  his  sturdy  honest  mastiff  qualities  won  so  upon  Lord  I 
Byron  as  even  to  rival  his  Newfoundland  dog  in  his  affections. 
Often  when  dining,  he  would  pour  out  a  bumper  of  choice 
Madeira,  and  hand  it  to  Joe  as  he  stood  behind  his  chair.  In 
fact,  when  he  built  the  monumental  tomb  which  stands  in  the 
Abbey  garden,  he  intended  it  for  himself,  Joe  Murray,  and  the 
dog.  The  two  latter  were  to  lie  on  each  side  of  hirn.  Boat 
swain  died  not  long  afterward,  and  was  regularly  interred,  and 
the  well-known  epitaph  inscribed  on  one  side  of  the  monument. 
Lord  Byron  departed  for  Greece ;  during  his  absence,  a  gentle 
man  to  whom  Joe  Murray  was  showing  the  tomb,  observed, 
"Well,  old  boy,  you  will  take  your  place  here  some  twenty 
years  hence.-" 

"I  don't  know  that,  sir,"  growled  Joe,  in  reply,  "if  I  was 
sure  his  Lordship  would  come  here,  I  should  like  it  well  enough, 
but  I  should  not  like  to  lie  alone  with  the  dog." 

Joe  Murray  was  always  extremely  neat  in  his  dress,  and 
attentive  to  his  person,  and  made  a  most  respectable  appear 
ance.  A  portrait  of  him  still  hangs  in  the  Abbey,  representing 
him  a  hale  fresh-looking  fellow,  in  a  flaxen  wig,  a  blue  coat 
and  buff  waistcoat,  with  a  pipe  in  his  hand.  He  discharged  all 
the  duties  of  his  station  with  great  fidelity,  unquestionable 
honesty,  and  much  outward  decorum,  but,  if  we  may  believe 
his  contemporary,  Nanny  Smith,  who,  as  housekeeper,  shared 
the  sway  of  the  household  with  him,  he  was  very  lax  in  his 
minor  morals,  and  used  to  sing  loose  and  profane  songs  as  he 
presided  at  the  table  in  the  servants'  hall,  or  sat  taking  his  ale 
and  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  evening  fire.  Joe  had  evidently 
derived  his  convivial  notions  from  the  race  of  English  country 
squires  who  flourished  in  the  days  of  his  juvenility.  Nanny 
Smith  was  scandalized  at  his  ribald  songs,  but  being  above 
harm  herself,  endured  them  in  silence.  At  length,  on  his  sing 
ing  them  before  a  young  girl  of  sixteen,  she  could  contain  her 
self  no  longer,  but  read  him  a  lecture  that  made  his  ears  ring 


76  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

and  then  flounced  off  to  bed.  The  lecture  seems,  by  her  ao 
eount,  to  have  staggered  Joe,  for  he  told  her  the  next  morning 
that  he  had  had  a  terrible  dream  in  the  night.  An  Evangel 
ist  stood  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  with  a  great  Dutch  Bible,  which 
he  held  with  the  printed  part  toward  him,  and  after  a  while 
pushed  it  in  his  face.  Nanny  Smith  undertook  to  interpret 
the  vision,  and  read  from  it  such  a  homily,  and  deduced  such 
awful  warnings,  that  Joe  became  quite  serious,  left  off  singing, 
and  took  to  reading  good  books  for  a  month;  but  after  that, 
continued  Nanny,  he  relapsed  and  became  as  bad  as  ever,  and 
continued  to  sing  loose  and  profane  songs  to  his  dying  day. 

When  Colonel  Wildman  became  proprietor  of  the  Abbey  he 
found  Joe  Murray  flourishing  in  a  green  old  age,  though  up 
ward  of  fourscore,  and  continued  him  in  his  station  as  butler. 
The  old  man  was  rejoiced  at  the  extensive  repairs  that  were 
immediately  commenced,  and  anticipated  with  pride  the  day 
when  the  Abbey  should  rise  out  of  its  ruins  with  renovated 
splendor,  its  gates  be  thronged  with  trains  and  equipages,  and 
its  halls  once  more  echo  to  the  sound  of  joyous  hospitality. 

What  chiefly,  however,  concerned  Joe's  pride  and  ambition, 
was  a  plan  of  the  Colonel's  to  have  the  ancient  refectory  of  the 
convent,  a  great  vaulted  room,  supported  by  Gothic  columns, 
converted  into  a  servants'  hall.  Here  Joe  looked  forward  to 
rule  the  roast  at  the  head  of  the  servants'  table,  and  to  make 
rhe  Gothic  arches  ring  with  those  hunting  and  hard-drinking 
ditties  which  were  the  horror  of  the  discreet  Nanny  Smith. 
Time,  however,  was  fast  wearing  away  with  him,  and  his  great 
fear  was  that  the  hall  would  not  be  completed  in  his  day.  In 
his  eagerness  to  hasten  the  repairs,  he  used  to  get  up  early  in 
the  morning,  and  ring  up  the  workmen.  Notwithstanding  his 
great  age,  also,  he  would  turn  out  half -dressed  in  cold  weather 
to  cut  sticks  for  the  fire.  Colonel  Wildman  kindly  remon 
strated  with  him  for  thus  risking  his  health,  as  others  would 
do  the  work  for  him. 

"  Lord,  sir,"  exclaimed  th  ehale  old  fellow,  "  it's  my  air-bath, 
I'm  all  the  better  for  it." 

Unluckily,  as  he  was  thus  employed  one  morning  a  splinter 
flew  up  and  wounded  one  of  his  eyes.  An  inflammation  took 
place ;  he  lost  the  sight  of  that  eye,  and  subsequently  of  the 
other.  Poor  Joe  gradually  pined  away,  and  grew  melancholy. 
Colonel  Wildman  kindly  tried  to  cheer  him  up — "  Come,  come, 
old  boy,"  cried  he,  "  be  of  good  heart,  you  will  yet  take  youi 
place  in  the  servants'  halL". 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY.  77 

:<Nay,  nay,  sir,"  replied  he,  "I  did  hope  once  that  I  should 
live  to  see  it — I  looked  forward  to  it  with  pride,  I  confess,  but 
it  is  all  over  with  me  now — I  shall  soon  go  home  1" 

He  died  shortly  afterward,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six, 
seventy  of  which  had  been  passed  as  an  honest  and  faithful 
servant  at  the  Abbey.  Colonel  Wildman  had  him  decently  in 
terred  in  the  church  of  Hucknall  Torkard,  near  the  vault  of 
Lord  Byron. 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

THE  anecdotes  I  had  heard  of  the  quondam  housekeeper  of 
Lord  Byron,  rendered  me  desirous  of  paying  her  a  visit.  I 
rode  in  company  with  Colonel  Wildman,  therefore,  to  the  cot 
tage  of  her  son  William,  where  she  resides,  and  found  her 
seated  by  her  fireside,  with  a  favorite  cat  perched  upon  her 
shoulder  and  purring  in  her  ear.  Nanny  Smith  is  a  large, 
good-looking  woman,  a  specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  country 
housewife,  combining  antiquated  notions  and  prejudices,  and 
very  limited  information,  with  natural  good  sense.  She  loves 
to  gossip  about  the  Abbey  and  Lord  Byron,  and  was  soon 
drawn  into  a  course  of  anecdotes,  though  mostly  of  an  humble 
kind,  such  as  suited  the  meridian  of  the  housekeeper's  room 
and  servants'  hall.  She  seemed  to  entertain  a  kind  recollec 
tion  of  Lord  Byron,  though  she  had  evidently  been  much  per 
plexed  by  some  of  his  vagaries ;  and  especially  by  the  means 
he  adopted  to  counteract  his  tendency  to  corpulency.  He  used 
various  modes  to  sweat  himself  down ;  sometimes  he  would  lie 
for  a  long  time  hi  a  warm  bath,  sometimes  he  would  walk  up 
the  hills  in  the  park,  wrapped  up  and  loaded  with  great  coats; 
"a  sad  toil  for  the  poor  youth,"  added  Nanny,  "he  being  so 
lame." 

His  meals  were  scanty  and  irregular,  consisting  of  dishea 
which  Nanny  seemed  to  hold  in  great  contempt,  such  as  pillau, 
maccaroni,  and  light  puddings. 

She  contradicted  the  report  of  the  licentious  Me  which  he 
was  reported  to  lead  at  the  Abbey,  and  of  the  paramours  said 
to  have  been  brought  with  him  from  London.  "A  great  part 
of  his  time  used  to  be  passed  lying  on  a  sofa  reading.  Some 
times  he  had  young  gentlemen  of  his  acquaintance  with  him. 


78  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

and  they  played  some  mad  pranks;  but  nothing  but  \toat 
young  gentlemen  may  do,  and  no  harm  done." 

"  Once,  it  is  true,"  she  added,  "he  had  with  him  a  beautiful 
boy  as  a  page,  which  the  housemaids  said  was  a  girl.  For  my 
part,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Poor  soul,  he  was  so  lama  he 
could  not  go  out  much  with  the  men ;  all  the  comfort  he  had 
was  to  be  a  little  with  the  lassos.  The  housemaids,  however, 
were  very  jealous ;  one  of  them,  in  particular,  took  the  matter 
in  great  dudgeon.  Her  name  was  Lucy;  she  was  a  great 
favorite  with  Lord  Byron,  and  had  been  much  noticed  by  him, 
and  began  to  have  high  notions.  She  had  her  fortune  told  by 
a  man  who  squinted,  to  whom  she  gave  two-and-sixpence.  He 
told  her  to  hold  up  her  head  and  look  high,  for  she  would  come 
to  great  things.  Upon  this,"  added  Nanny,  "the  poor  thing 
dreamt  of  nothing  less  than  becoming  a  lady,  and  mistress  of 
the  Abbey ;  and  promised  me,  if  such  luck  should  happen  to 
her,  she  would  be  a  good  friend  to  me.  Ah  well-a-day !  Lucy 
never  had  the  fine  fortune  she  dreamt  of;  but  she  had  better 
than  I  thought  for;  she  is  now  married,  and  keeps  a  public 
house  at  Warwick." 

Finding  that  we  listened  to  her  with  great  attention,  Nanny 
Smith  went  on  with  her  gossiping.  "One  time,"  said  she, 
"  Lord  Byron  took  a  notion  that  there  was  a  deal  of  money 
buried  about  the  Abbey  by  the  monks  in  old  times,  and  noth 
ing  would  serve  him  but  he  must  have  the  flagging  taken  up 
in  the  cloisters ;  and  they  digged  and  digged,  but  found  noth 
ing  but  stone  coffins  full  of  bones.  Then  he  must  needs  have 
one  of  the  coffins  put  in  one  end  of  the  great  hall,  so  that  the 
servants  were  afraid  to  go  there  of  nights.  Several  of  the 
skulls  were  cleaned  and  put  in  frames  in  his  room.  I  used  to 
have  to  go  into  the  room  at  night  to  shut  the  windows,  and  if 
I  glanced  an  eye  at  them,  they  all  seemed  to  grin;  which  I  be-  t 
lieve  skulls  always  do.  I  can't  say  but  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of 
the  room. 

"There  was  at  one  time  (and  for  that  matter  there  is  still) 
a  good  deal  said  about  ghosts  haunting  about  the  Abbey.  The 
keeper's  wife  said  she  saw  two  standing  in  a  dark  part  of  the 
cloisters  just  opposite  the  chapel,  and  one  in  the  garden  by  the 
lord's  well.  Then  there  was  a  young  lady,  a  cousin  of  Lord 
Byron,  who  was  staying  in  the  Abbey  and  slept  in  the 
next  the  clock ;  and  she  told  me  that  one  night  when  she 
lying  in  bed,  she  saw  a  lady  in  white  come  out  of  the  wall  on 
one  side  of  the  room,  and  go  into  the  wall  on  the  opposite  side 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBE7.  79 

•'Lord  Byron  one  day  said  to  me,  'Nanny,  what  nonsense 
they  tell  about  ghosts,  as  if  there  ever  were  any  such  things. 
I  have  never  seen  any  thing  of  the  kind  about  the  Abbey,  and 
I  warrant  you  have  not.'  This  was  all  done,  do  you  see,  to 
draw  me  out ;  but  I  said  nothing,  but  shook  my  head.  How 
ever,  they  say  his  lordship  did  once  see  something.  It  was  in 
the  great  hall — something  all  black  and  hairy,  he  said  it  was 
the  devil. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  Nanny  Smith,  "I  never  saw  any 
thing  of  the  kind — but  I  heard  something  once.  I  was  one 
evening  scrubbing  the  floor  of  the  little  dining-room  at  the  end 
of  the  long  gallery;  it  was  after  dark;  I  expected  every  mo 
ment  to  be  called  to  tea,  but  wished  to  finish  what  I  was  about. 
All  at  once  I  heard  heavy  footsteps  in  the  great  hall.  They 
sounded  like  the  tramp  of  a  horse.  I  took  the  light  and  went 
to  see  what  it  was.  I  heard  the  steps  come  from  the  lower  end 
of  the  hall  to  the  fireplace  in  the  centre,  where  they  stopped ; 
but  I  could  see  nothing.  I  returned  to  my  work,  and  in  a  little 
time  heard  the  same  noise  again.  I  went  again  with  the  light ; 
the  footsteps  stopped  by  the  fireplace  as  before;  still  I  could 
see  nothing.  I  returned  to  my  work,  when  I  heard  the  steps 
for  a  third  time.  I  then  went  into  the  hall  without  a  light,  but 
they  stopped  just  the  same,  by  the  fireplace,  half  way  up  the 
hall.  I  thought  this  rather  odd,  but  returned  to  my  work. 
When  it  was  finished,  I  took  the  light  and  went  through  the 
hall,  as  that  was  my  way  to  the  kitchen.  I  heard  no  more 
footsteps,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  matter,  when,  on  coming 
to  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  I  found  the  door  locked,  and  then, 
on  one  side  of  the  door,  I  saw  the  stone  coffin  with  the  skull 
and  bones  that  had  been  digged  up  in  the  cloisters." 

Here  Nanny  paused.  I  asked  her  if  she  believed  that  the 
mysterious  footsteps  had  any  connection  with  the  skeleton  in 
the  coffin ;  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  would  not  commit  her 
self.  We  took  our  leave  of  the  good  old  dame  shortly  after, 
and  the  story  she  had  related  gave  subject  for  conversation  on 
DUT  ride  homeward.  It  was  evident  she  had  spoken  the  truth 
as  to  what  she  had  heard,  but  had  been  deceived  by  some  pecu 
liar  effect  of  sound.  Noises  are  propagated  about  a  huge  irreg 
ular  edifice  of  the  kind  in  a  very  deceptive  manner ;  footsteps 
are  prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  vaulted  cloisters  and 
echoing  halls ;  the  creaking  and  slamming  of  distant  gates,  the 
rushing  of  the  blast  through  the  groves  and  among  the  ruined 
tirches  of  the  chapel,  have  all  a  strangely  delusive  effect  at  night 


80  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Colonel  Wildman  gave  an  instance  of  the  kind  from  his  own 
experience.  Not  long  after  he  had  taken  up  his  residence  at 
the  Abbey,  he  heard  one  moonlight  night  a  noise  as  if  a  car 
riage  was  passing  at  a  distance.  He  opened  the  window  and 
leaned  out.  It  then  seemed  as  if  the  great  iron  roller  was 
dragged  along  the  gravel  walks  and  terrace,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen.  When  he  saw  the  gardener  on  the  follow 
ing  morning,  he  questioned  him  about  working  so  late  at  night 
The  gardener  declared  that  no  one  had  been  at  work,  and  the 
roller  was  chained  up.  He  was  sent  to  examine  it,  and  came 
back  with  a  countenance  full  of  surprise.  The  roller  had  been 
moved  in  the  night,  but  he  declared  no  mortal  hand  could 
have  moved  it.  "Well,"  replied  the  Colonel,  good-humoredly, 
"  I  am  glad  to  find  I  have  a  brownie  to  work  for  me." 

Lord  Byron  did  much  to  foster  and  give  currency  to  the 
superstitious  tales  connected  with  the  Abbey,  by  believing,  or 
pretending  to  believe  in  them.  Many  have  supposed  that  his 
mind  was  really  tinged  with  superstition,  and  that  this  innate 
infirmity  was  increased  by  passing  much  of  his  time  in  a  lonely 
way,  about  the  empty  halls  and  cloisters  of  the  Abbey,  then  in 
a  ruinous  melancholy  state,  and  brooding  over  the  skulls  and 
effigies  of  its  former  inmates.  I  should  rather  think  that  he 
found  poetical  enjoyment  in  these  supernatural  themes,  and 
that  his  imagination  delighted  to  people  this  gloomy  and 
romantic  pile  with  all  kinds  of  shadowy  inhabitants.  Certain 
it  is,  the  aspect  of  the  mansion  under  the  varying  influence  of 
twilight  and  moonlight,  and  cloud  and  sunshine  operating 
upon  its  halls,  and  galleries,  and  monkish  cloisters,  is  enough 
to  breed  all  kinds  of  fancies  in  the  minds  of  its  inmates,  espe 
cially  if  poetically  or  superstitiously  inclined. 

I  have  already  mentioned  tiome  of  the  fabled  visitants  of  tLe 
Abbey.  The  goblin  friar,  however,  is  the  one  to  whom  Loid 
Byron  has  given  the  greatest  importance.  It  walked  the  clois 
ters  by  night,  and  sometimes  glimpses  of  it  were  seen  in  other 
parts  of  the  Abbey.  Its  appearance  was  said  to  portend  some 
impending  evil  to  the  master  of  the  mansion.  Lord  Byron 
pretended  to  have  seen  it  about  a  month  before  he  contracted 
his  ill-starred  marriage  with  Miss  Milbanke. 

He  has  embodied  this  tradition  in  the  following  ballad,  in 
which  he  represents  the  friar  as  one  of  the  ancient  inmates 
of  the  Abbey,  maintaining  by  night  a  kind  of  spectral  pos 
session  of  it,  in  right  of  the  fraternity.  Other  traditions, 
however,  represent  him  as  one  o£  the  friars  doomed  to  wan 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY.  81 

der  about  the  place  in  atonement  for  his  crimes.    But  to  the 
ballad — 

44  Beware !  beware !  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayers  in  the  midnight  air 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

Would  not  be  driven  away. 

"  Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lauds  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay, 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he's  seen  in  the  church, 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 

"  And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill. 

It  is  not  mine  to  say; 
But  still  to  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage  bed  of  their  lords,  'tis  said, 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve ; 
And  'tis  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death, 

He  comes— but  not  to  grieve. 

"  When  an  heir  is  born,  he  is  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'Tis  shadow'd  by  his  cowl; 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between. 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

"•  But  beware!  beware  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway, 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir, 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night, 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 

5  Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he'll  say  nought  to  you; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  gramercy !  for  the  Black  Friar; 

Heaven  sain  him !  fair  or  foul, 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  pray«r 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul." 


82  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  goblin  friar,  which,  partly  through 
old  tradition,  and  partly  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Byron's 
rhymes,  has  become  completely  established  in  the  Abbey,  and 
threatens  to  hold  possession  so  long  as  the  old  edifice  shall  en 
dure.  Various  visitors  have  either  fancied,  or  pretended  to 
have  seen  him,  and  a  cousin  of  Lord  Byron,  Miss  Sally  Parkins, 
is  even  said  to  have  made  a  sketch  of  him  from  memory.  As 
to  the  servants  at  the  Abbey,  they  have  become  possessed  with 
all  kinds  of  superstitious  fancies.  The  long  corridors  and 
Gothic  halls,  with  their  ancient  portraits  and  dark  figures  in 
armor,  are  all  haunted  regions  to  them ;  they  even  fear  to  sleep 
alone,  and  will  scarce  venture  at  night  on  any  distant  errand 
about  the  Abbey  unless  they  go  in  couples. 

Even  the  magnificent  chamber  in  which  I  was  lodged  was 
subject  to  the  supernatural  influences  which  reigned  over  the 
Abbey,  and  was  said  to  be  haunted  by  "Sir  John  Byron  the 
Little  with  the  great  Beard."  The  ancient  black-looking 
portrait  of  this  family  worthy,  which  hangs  over  the  door  of 
the  great  saloon,  was  said  to  descend  occasionally  at  midnight 
from  the  frame,  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  state  apartments. 
Nay,  his  visitations  were  not  confined  to  the  night,  for  a  young 
lady,  on  a  visit  to  the  Abbey  some  years  since,  declared 
that,  on  passing  in  broad  day  by  the  door  of  the  identi 
cal  chamber  I  have  described,  which  stood  partly  open,  she 
saw  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  seated  by  the  fireplace,  reading 
out  of  a  great  black-letter  book.  From  this  circumstance  some 
have  been  led  to  suppose  that  the  story  of  Sir  John  Byron  may 
be  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  mysterious  sculptures 
of  the  chimney-piece  already  mentioned ;  but  this  has  no  coun 
tenance  from  the. most  authentic  antiquarians  of  the  Abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  the  moment  I  learned  the  wonderful  stories 
and  strange  suppositions  connected  with  my  apartment,  it  be 
came  an  imaginary  realm  to  me.  As  I  lay  in  bed  at  night  and 
gazed  at  the  mysterious  panel- work,  where  Gothic  knight,  and 
Christian  dame,  and  Paynim  lover  gazed  upon  me  in  effigy,  I 
Used  to  weave  a  thousand  fancies  concerning  them.  The  great 
figures  in  the  tapestry,  also,  were  almost  animated  by  the 
workings  of  my  imagination,  and  the  Vandyke  portraits  of  the 
cavalier  and  lady  that  looked  down  with  pale  aspects  from  the 
wall,  had  almost  a  spectral  effect,  from  their  immovable  gaze 
and  silent  companionship — 

"  For  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 


ANNESLET  HALL.  83 

Their  buried  looks  still  wave 

Along  the  canvas ;  their  eyes  glance  like  dreams 
On  ours,  as  spars  within  some  dusky  cave, 

But  death  is  mingled  in  their  shadowy  beams." 

In  this  way  I  used  to  conjure  up  fictions  of  the  brain,  and 
clothe  the  objects  around  me  with  ideal  interest  and  import, 
until,  as  the  Abbey  clock  tolled  midnight,  I  almost  looked  to 
see  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  with  the  long  beard  stalk  into  the 
room  with  his  book  under  his  arm,  and  take  his  seat  beside  the 
mysterious  chimney-piece. 


ANNESLEY  HALL. 

AT  about  three  miles'  distance  from  Newstead  Abbey,  and 
contiguous  to  its  lands,  is  situated  Annesley  Hall,  the  old  family 
mansion  of  the  Chaworths.  The  families,  like  the  estates,  of  the 
Byrons  and  Chaworths,  were  connected  in  former  times,  until 
the  fatal  duel  between  their  two  representatives.  The  feud, 
however,  which  prevailed  for  a  time,  promised  to  be  cancelled 
by  the  attachment  of  two  youthful  hearts.  While  Lord  Byron 
was  yet  a  boy,  he  beheld  Mary  Ann  Chaworth,  a  beautiful  girl, 
and  the  sole  heiress  of  Annesley.  With  that  susceptibility  to 
female  charms,  whxch  he  evinced  almost  from  childhood,  he  be 
came  almost  immediately  enamored  of  her.  According  to  one 
of  his  biographers,  it  would  appear  that  at  first  their  attachment 
was  mutual,  yet  clandestine.  The  father  of  Miss  Chaworth  was 
then  living,  and  may  have  retained  somewhat  of  the  family 
hostility,  for  we  are  told  that  the  interviews  of  Lord  Byron  and 
the  young  lady  were  private,  at  a  gate  which  opened  from  her 
father's  grounds  to  those  of  Newstead.  However,  they  were 
so  young  at  the  tune  that  these  meetings  could  not  have  been 
regarded  as  of  any  importance:  they  were  little  more  than 
children  in  years ;  but,  as  Lord  Byron  says  of  himself,  his  feel 
ings  were  beyond  his  age. 

The  passion  thus  early  conceived  was  blown  into  a  flame, 
during  a  six  weeks'  vacation  which  he  passed  with  his  mother 
at  Nottingham.  The  father  of  M'ss  Chaworth  was  dead,  and 
she  resided  with  her  mother  at  the  old  Hall  of  Annesley.  Dur 
ing  Byron's  minority,  the  estate  of  Newstead  was  let  to  Lord 
Grey  de  Ruthen,  but  its  youthful  Lord  was  always  a  welcome 


84  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

guest  at  the  Abbey.  He  would  pass  days  at  a  time  there,  and 
make  frequent  visits  thence  to  Annesley  Hall.  Hig  visits  were 
encouraged  by  Miss  Chaworth's  mother ;  she  partook  of  none  of 
the  family  feud,  and  probably  looked  with  complacency  upon 
an  attachment  that  might  heal  old  differences  and  unite  two 
neighboring  estates. 

The  six  weeks'  vacation  passed  as  a  dream  amongst  the  beau 
tiful  flowers  of  Annesley.  Byron  was  scarce  fifteen  years  of  age, 
Mary  Chaworth  was  two  years  older ;  but  his  heart,  as  I  have 
said,  was  beyond  his  age,  and  his  tenderness  for  her  was  deep 
and  passionate.  These  early  loves,  like  the  first  run  of  the  un- 
crushed  grape,  are  the  sweetest  and  strongest  gushings  of  the 
heart,  and  however  they  may  be  superseded  by  other  attach 
ments  in  after  years,  the  memory  will  continually  recur  to 
them,  and  fondly  dwell  upon  their  recollections. 

His  love  for  Miss  Chaworth,  to  use  Lord  Byron's  own  expres 
sion,  was  "the  romance  of  the  most  romantic  period  of  his  life," 
and  I  think  we  can  trace  the  effect  of  it  throughout  the  whole 
course  of  his  writings,  coming  up  every  now  and  then,  like 
some  lurking  theme  which  runs  through  a  complicated  piece  of 
music,  and  links  it  all  in  a  pervading  chain  of  melody. 

How  tenderly  and  mournfully  does  he  recall,  in  after  years, 
the  feelings  awakened  in  his  youthful  and  inexperienced  bosom 
by  this  impassioned,  yet  innocent  attachment;  feelings,  he 
says,  lost  or  hardened  in  the  intercourse  of  life: 

"  The  love  of  better  things  and  better  days; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  called  the  world,  and  the  world's  ways; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own, 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone." 

Whether  this  love  was  really  responded  to  by  the  object,  is 
uncertain.  Byron  sometimes  speaks  as  if  he  had  met  with 
kindness  in  return,  at  other  times  he  acknowledges  that  she 
never  gave  him  reason  to  believe  she  loved  him.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  at  first  she  experienced  some  flutterings  of  the 
heart.  She  was  of  a  susceptible  age;  had  as  yet  formed  no 
other  attachments;  her  lover,  though  boyish  in  years,  was  a 
man  in  intellect,  a  poet  in  imagination,  and  had  a  countenance 
of  remarkable  beauty. 

With  the  six  weeks'  vacation  ended  this  brief  romance. 
Byron  returned  to  school  deeply  enamored,  but  if  he  had  really 


ANNESLET  HALL.  86 

made  any  impression  on  Miss  Chaworth's  heart,  it  was  too 
slight  to  stand  the  test  of  absence.  She  was  at  that  age  when 
a  female  soon  changes  from  the  girl  to  a  woman,  and  leaves 
her  boyish  lovers  far  behind  her.  While  Byron  was  pursuing 
his  school-boy  studies,  she  was  mingling  with  society,  and 
met  with  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Musters,  remarkable,  it 
is  said,  for  manly  beauty.  A  story  is  told  of  her  having  first 
seen  him  from  the  top  of  Annesley  Hall,  as  he  dashed  through 
the  park,  with  hound  and  horn,  taking  the  lead  of  the  whole 
field  in  a  fox  chase,  and  that  she  was  struck  by  the  spirit  of  his 
appearance,  and  his  admirable  horsemanship.  Under  such 
favorable  auspices,  he  wooed  and  won  her,  and  when  Lord 
Byron  next  met  her,  he  learned  to  his  dismay  that  she  was  the 
affianced  bride  of  another. 

With  that  pride  of  spirit  which  always  distinguished  him, 
he  controlled  his  feelings  and  maintained  a  serene  countenance. 
He  even  affected  to  speak  calmly  on  the  subject  of  her  ap 
proaching  nuptials.  "The  next  time  I  see  you,"  said  he,  "I 
suppose  you  will  be  Mrs.  Chaworth"  (for  she  was  to  retain  her 
family  name).  Her  reply  was,  "  I  hope  so." 

I  have  given  these  brief  details  preparatory  to  a  sketch  of  a 
visit  which  I  made  to  the  scene  of  this  youthful  romance.  An 
nesley  Hall  I  understood  was  shut  up,  neglected,  and  almost 
in  a  state  of  desolation ;  for  Mr.  Musters  rarely  visited  it,  resid 
ing  with  his  family  in  the  neighborhood  of  Nottingham.  I  set 
out  for  the  Hall  on  horseback,  in  company  with  Colonel  Wild- 
man,  and  followed  by  the  great  Newfoundland  dog  Boatswain. 
In  the  course  of  our  ride  we  visited  a  spot  memorable  in  the 
love  story  I  have  cited.  It  was  the  scene  of  this  parting  inter 
view  between  Byron  and  Miss  Chaworth,  prior  to  her  marriage. 
A  long  ridge  of  upland  advances  into  the  valley  of  Newstead, 
'like  a  promontory  into  a  lake,  and  was  formerly  crowned  by  a 
beautiful  grove,  a  landmark  to  the  neighboring  country.  The 
grove  and  promontory  are  graphically  described  by  Lord  Byron 
in  his  "Dream,"  and  an  exquisite  picture  given  of  himself,  and 
the  lovely  object  of  his  boyish  idolatry— 

"  I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green,  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  man, 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 


36  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs ;— the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing— the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself —but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 
And  both  were  fair,  and  one  was  beautiful : 
And  both  were  young— yet  not  alike  in  youth: 
As  the  sweet  moon  in  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  verge  of  womanhood; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him." 

I  stood  upon  the  spot  consecrated  by  this  memorable  inter 
view.  Below  me  extended  the  "living  landscape,"  once  con 
templated  by  the  loving  pair;  the  gentle  valley  of  Newstead, 
diversified  by  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  village  spires,  and 
gleams  of  water,  and  the  distant  towers  and  pinnacles  of  the 
venerable  Abbey.  The  diadem  of  trees,  however,  was  gone. 
The  attention  drawn  to  it  by  the  poet,  and  the  romantic  man 
ner  in  which  he  had  associated  it  with  his  early  passion  for 
Mary  Cha worth,  had  nettled  the  irritable  feelings  of  her  hus 
band,  who  but  ill  brooked  the  poetic  celebrity  conferred  on  his 
wife  by  the  enamored  verses  of  another.  The  celebrated  grove 
stood  on  his  estate,  and  in  a  fit  of  spleen  he  ordered  it  to  be 
levelled  with  the  dust.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  mere  roots 
of  the  trees  were  visible ;  but  the  hand  that  laid  them  low  is 
execrated  by  every  poetical  pilgrim. 

Descending  the  hill,  we  soon  entered  a  part  of  what  once  was 
Annesley  Park,  and  rode  among  time-worn  and  tempest-riven 
oaks  and  elms,  with  ivy  clambering  about  their  trunks,  and 
rooks'  nests  among  their  branches.  The  park  had  been  cut  up 
by  a  post-road,  crossing  which,  we  came  to  the  gate-house  of 
Annesley  Hall.  It  was  an  old  brick  building  that  might  have 
served  as  an  outpost  or  barbacan  to  the  Hall  during  the  civil 
wars,  when  every  gentleman's  house  was  liable  to  become  a 
fortress.  Loopholes  were  still  visible  in  its  walls,  but  the 
peaceful  ivy  had  mantled  the  sides,  overrun  the  roof,  and  almost 
buried  the  ancient  clock  in  front,  that  still  marked  the  waning 
hours  of  its  decay. 

An  arched  way  led  through  the  centre  of  the  gate-house, 
secured  by  grated  doors  of  open  iron  work,  wrought  into  flow 
ers  and  flourishes.  These  being  thrown  open,  we  entered  a 
paved  court-yard,  decorated  with  shrubs  and  antique  flower- 


ANNESLEY  HALL.  87 

pots,  •with  a  ruined  stone  fountain  in  the  centre.  The  whole 
approach  resembled  that  of  an  old  French  chateau. 

On  one  side  of  the  court-yard  was  a  range  of  stables,  now 
tenantless,  but  which  bore  traces  of  the  fox-hunting  squire; 
for  there  were  stalls  boxed  up,  into  which  the  hunters  might 
be  turned  loose  when  they  came  home  from  the  chase. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  court,  and  immediately  opposite  the 
gate-house,  extended  the  Hall  itself;  a  rambling,  irregular  pile, 
patched  and  pieced  at  various  times,  and  in  various  tastes, 
with  gable  ends,  stone  balustrades,  and  enormous  chimneys, 
that  strutted  out  like  buttresses  from  the  walls.  The  whole 
front  of  the  edifice  was  overrun  with  evergreens. 

We  applied  for  admission  at  the  front  door,  which  was  under 
a  heavy  porch.  The  portal  was  strongly  barricaded,  and  OUT 
knocking  was  echoed  by  waste  and  empty  halls.  Every  thing 
bore  an  appearance  of  abandonment.  After  a  tune,  however, 
our  knocking  summoned  a  solitary  tenant  from  some  remote 
corner  of  the  pile.  It  was  a  decent-looking  little  dame,  who 
emerged  from  a  side  door  at  a  distance,  and  seemed  a  worthy 
inmate  of  the  antiquated  mansion.  She  had,  in  fact,  grown  old 
with  it.  Her  name,  she  said,  was  Nanny  Marsden;  if  she  lived 
until  next  August,  she  would  be  seventy-one ;  a  great  part  of 
her  life  had  been  passed  in  the  Hall,  and  when  the  family  had 
removed  to  Nottingham,  she  had  been  left  in  charge  of  it.  The 
front  of  the  house  had  been  thus  warily  barricaded  in  conse 
quence  of  the  late  riots  at  Nottingham,  in  the  course  of  which 
the  dwelling  of  her  master  had  been  sacked  by  the  mob.  To 
guard  against  any  attempt  of  the  kind  upon  the  Hall,  she  had 
put  it  in  this  state  of  defence ;  though  I  rather  think  she  and  a 
superannuated  gardener  comprised  the  whole  garrison.  "You 
must  be  attached  to  the  old  building,"  said  I,  "after  having 
lived  so  long  in  it."  "Ah,  sir!"  replied  she,  "I  am,  getting  in 
years,  and  have  a  furnished  cottage  of  my  own  in  Annesley 
Wood,  and  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  go  and  live  in  my 
own  home." 

Guided  by  the  worthy  little  custodian  of  the  fortress,  we 
entered  through  the  sally  port  by  which  she  had  issued  forth, 
and  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  spacious,  but  somewhat  gloomy 
hall,  where  the  light  was  partially  admitted  through  square 
stone  -  shafted  windows,  overhung  with  ivy.  Everything 
around  us  had  the  air  of  an  old-fashioned  country  squire's 
establishment.  In  the  centre  of  the  hall  was  a  billiard-table, 
and  about  the  walls  were  hung  portraits  of  race -horses, 


88  NEWSTEAD  SBBEY. 

hunters,  and  favorite  dogs,  mingled  indiscriminately  with 
family  pictures. 

Staircases  led  up  from  the  hall  to  various  apartments.  In 
one  of  the  rooms  we  were  shown  a  couple  of  buff  jerkins,  and 
a  pair  of  ancient  jackboots,  of  the  time  of  the  cavaliers ;  relics 
which  are  often  to  be  met  with  in  the  old  English  family  man 
sions.  These,  however,  had  peculiar  value,  for  the  good  little 
dame  assured  us  that  they  had  belonged  to  Eobin  Hood.  As 
we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  region  over  which  that  famous  out 
law  once  bore  ruffian  sway,  it  was  not  for  us  to  gainsay  his 
claim  to  any  of  these  venerable  relics,  though  we  might  have 
demurred  that  the  articles  of  dress  here  shown  were  of  a  date 
much  later  than  his  time.  Every  antiquity,  however,  about 
Sherwood  Forest  is  apt  to  be  linked  with  the  memory  of  Robin 
Hood  and  his  gang. 

As  we  were  strolling  about  the  mansion,  our  four-footed  at 
tendant,  Boatswain,  followed  leisurely,  as  if  taking  a  survey  of 
the  premises.  I  turned  to  rebuke  him  for  his  intrusion,  but  the 
moment  the  old  housekeeper  understood  he  had  belonged  to 
Lord  Byron,  her  heart  seemed  to  yearn  toward  him. 

"Nay,  nay," exclaimed  she,  "let  him  alone,  let  him  go  where 
he  pleases.  He's  welcome.  Ah,  dear  me !  If  he  li ved  here  I 
should  take  great  care  of  him — he  should  want  for  nothing. — 
Well!"  continued  she,  fondling  him,  "who  would  have  thought 
*<hat  I  should  see  a  dog  of  Lord  Byron  in  Annesley  Hall !" 

"I  suppose,  then,"  said  I,  "you  recollect  something  of  Lord 
Byron,  when  he  used  to  visit  here?"  "Ah,  bless  him!"  cried 
she,  "that  I  do!  He  used  to  ride  over  here  and  stay  three 
days  at  a  time,  and  sleep  in  the  blue  room.  Ah !  poor  fellow ! 
He  was  very  much  taken  with  my  young  mistress ;  he  used  to 
walk  about  the  garden  and  the  terraces  with  her,  and  seemed 
to  love  the  very  ground  she  trod  on.  He  used  to  call  her  his 
bright  morning  star  of  Annesley." 

I  felt  the  beautiful  poetic  phrase  thrill  through  me. 

"You  appear  to  like  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  sir!  why  should  not  I!  He  was  always  mam  good  to 
me  when  he  came  here.  Well,  well,  they  say  it  is  a  pity  he 
and  my  young  lady  did  not  make  a  match.  Her  mother  would 
have  liked  it.  He  was  always  a  welcome  guest,  and  some  think 
it  would  have  been  well  for  him  to  have  had  her ;  but  it  was 
not  to  be !  He  went  away  to  school,  and  then  Mr.  Musters  saw 
her,  and  so  things  took  their  course." 

The  simple  soul  now  showed  us  into  the  favorite  sitting-roonj 


ANNESLET  HALL.  89 

of  Miss  Chaworth,  with  a  small  flower-garden  under  the  win 
dows,  in  which  she  had  delighted.  In  this  room  Byron  used 
to  sit  and  listen  to  her  as  she  played  and  sang,  gazing  upon  her 
with  the  passionate,  and  almost  painful  devotion  of  a  love-sick 
stripling.  He  himself  gives  us  a  glowing  picture  of  his  mute 
idolatry : 

"  He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers; 
She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words ;  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 
Which  colored  'ill  his  objects;  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all:  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously— his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony." 

There  was  a  little  Welsh  air,  call  "Mary  Ann,"  which,  from 
bearing  her  own  name,  he  associated  with  herself,  and  often 
persuaded  her  to  sing  it  over  and  over  for  him. 

The  chamber,  like  all  the  other  parts  of  the  house,  had  a  look 
of  sadness  and  neglect ;  the  flower-pots  beneath  the  window, 
which  once  bloomed  beneath  the  hand  of  Mary  Chaworth,  were 
overrun  with  weeds ;  and  the  piano,  which  had  once  vibrated 
to  her  touch,  and  thrilled  the  heart  of  her  stripling  lover,  was 
now  unstrung  and  out  of  tune. 

We  continued  our  stroll  about  the  waste  apartments,  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes,  and  without  much  elegance  of  decoration. 
Some  of  them  were  hung  with  family  portraits,  among  which 
was  pointed  out  that  of  the  Mr.  Chaworth  who  was  killed  by 
the  "  wicked  Lord  Byron." 

These  dismal  looking  portraits  had  a  powerful  effect  upon 
the  imagination  of  the  stripling  poet,  on  his  first  visit  to  the 
hall.  As  they  gazed  down  from  the  wall,  he  thought  they 
scowled  upon  him,  as  if  they  had  taken  a  grudge  against  him 
on  account  of  the  duel  of  his  ancestor.  He  even  gave  this  as  a 
reason,  though  probably  in  jest,  for  not  sleeping  at  the  Hall, 
declaring  that  he  feared  they  would  come  down  from  their 
frames  at  night  to  haunt  him. 

A  feeling  of  the  kind  he  has  embodied  in  one  of  his  stanzas 
of  "Don  Juan:" 

"  The  forms  of  the  grim  knights  and  pictured  saints 

Look  living  in  the  moon ;  and  as  yr>u  turn 
Backward  and  forward  to  the  echoes  faint 
Of  your  own  footsteps — voices  from  the  urn 


90  NEWSTEAD  ABBEJ. 

Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 

Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects  stem, 
As  if  to  ask  you  how  you  dare  to  keep 
A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep." 

Nor  was  the  youthful  poet  singular  in  these  fancies ;  the  Hall, 
like  most  old  English  mansions  that  have  ancient  family  por 
traits  hanging  about  their  dusky  galleries  and  waste  apart 
ments,  had  its  ghost  story  connected  with  these  pale  memorials 
of  the  dead.  Our  simple-hearted  conductor  stopped  before  the 
portrait  of  a  lady,  who  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  time,  and  in 
habited  the  hall  in  the  heyday  of  her  charms.  Something  mys 
terious  or  melancholy  was  connected  with  her  story ;  she  died 
young,  but  continued  for  a  long  time  to  haunt  the  ancient 
mansion,  to  the  great  dismay  of  the  servants,  and  the  occa 
sional  disquiet  of  the  visitors,  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty 
her  troubled  spirit  was  conjured  down  and  put  to  rest. 

From  the  rear  of  the  hall  we  walked  out  into  the  garden, 
about  which  Byron  used  to  stroll  and  loiter  in  company  with 
Miss  Chaworth.  It  was  laid  out  in  the  old  French  style.  There 
was  a  long  terraced  walk,  with  heavy  stone  balustrades  and 
sculptured  urns,  overrun  with  ivy  and  evergreens.  A  neg 
lected  shrubbery  bordered  one  side  of  the  terrace,  with  a  lofty 
grove  inhabited  by  a  venerable  community  of  rooks.  Great 
flights  of  steps  led  down  from  the  terrace  to  a  flower  garden 
laid  out  in  formal  plots.  The  rear  of  the  Hall,  which  over 
looked  the  garden,  had  the  weather  stains  of  centuries,  and  its 
stone-shafted  casements  and  an  ancient  sun-dial  against  its 
walls  carried  back  the  mind  to  days  of  yore. 

The  retired  and  quiet  garden,  once  a  little  sequestered  world 
of  love  and  romance,  was  now  all  matted  and  wild,  yet  was 
beautiful,  even  in  its  decay.  Its  air  of  neglect  and  desolation 
was  in  unison  with  the  fortune  of  the  two  beings  who  had  once 
walked  here  in  the  freshness  of  youth,  and  life,  and  beauty. 
The  garden,  like  their  young  hearts,  had  gone  to  waste  and 
ruin. 

Eeturning  to  the  Hall  we  now  visited  a  chamber  built  over 
the  porch,  or  grand  entrance.  It  was  in  a  ruinous  condition, 
the  ceiling  having  fallen  in  and  the  floor  given  way.  This, 
however,  is  a  chamber  rendered  interesting  by  poetical  asso 
ciations.  It  is  supposed  to  be  the  oratory  alluded  to  by  Lord 
Byron  in  his  "Dream,"  wherein  he  pictures  his  departure  from 
Annesley,  after  learning  that  Mary  Chaworth  was  engaged  to 
be  married — 


ANNESLET  HALL.  gj 

'  There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned; 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  boy  of  whom  I  spake; — he  was  alone, 
And  pale  and  pacing  to  and  fro:  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  leaned 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again, 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet;  as  he  paused, 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-entered  there; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved, — she  knew, 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 
He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Return'd,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles: — he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way. 
And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more." 

In  one  of  his  journals,  Lord  Byron  describes  his  feelings  after 
thus  leaving  the  oratory.  Arriving  on  the  summit  of  a  hill, 
which  commanded  the  last  view  of  Annesley,  he  checked  his 
horse,  and  gazed  back  with  mingled  pain  and  fondness  upon 
the  groves  which  embowered  the  Hall,  and  thought  upon  the 
lovely  being  that  dwelt  there,  until  his  feelings  were  quite  dis 
solved  in  tenderness.  The  conviction  at  length  recurred  that 
she  never  could  be  his,  when,  rousing  himself  from  his  reverie, 
he  struck  his  spurs  into  his  steed  and  dashed  forward,  as  if  by 
rapid  motion  to  leave  reflection  behind  him. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  what  he  asserts  in  the  verses  last 
quoted,  he  did  pass  the  "hoary  threshold"  of  Annesley  again. 
It  was,  however,  after  the  lapse  of  several  years,  during  which 
he  had  grown  up  to  manhood,  and  had  passed  through  the 
ordeal  of  pleasures  and  tumultuous  passions,  and  had  felt  the 
influence  of  other  charms.  Miss  Chaworth,  too,  had  become  a 
wife  and  a  mother,  and  he  dined  at  Annesley  Hall  at  the  invi 
tation  of  her  husband.  He  thus  met  the  object  of  his  early 
idolatry  in  the  very  scene  of  his  tender  devotions,  which,  as 
he  says,  her  smiles  had  once  made  a  heaven  to  him.  The 


92  NEW3TEAD  ABBEY. 

scene  was  but  little  changed.  He  was  in  the  very  chamber 
where  he  had  so  often  listened  entranced  to  the  witchery  of 
her  voice ;  there  were  the  same  instruments  and  music ;  there 
lay  her  flower  garden  beneath  the  window,  and  the  walks 
through  which  he  had  wandered  with  her  in  the  intoxication 
of  youthful  love.  Can  we  wonder  that  amidst  the  tender 
recollections  which  every  object  around  him  was  calculated 
to  awaken,  the  fond  passion  of  his  boyhood  should  rush  back. 
in  full  current  to  his  heart?  He  was  himself  surprised  at  this- 
sudden  revulsion  of  his  feelings,  but  he  had  acquired  self-pos 
session  and  could  command  them.  His  firmness,  however,  was 
doomed  to  undergo  a  further  trial.  While  seated  by  the  ob 
ject  of  his  secret  devotions,  with  all  these  recollections  throb 
bing  in  his  bosom,  her  infant  daughter  was  brought  into  the 
room.  At  sight  of  the  child  he  started ;  it  dispelled  the  last 
lingerings  of  his  dream,  and  he  afterward  confessed,  that  to 
repress  his  emotion  at  the  moment,  was  the  severest  part  of 
his  task. 

The  conflict  of  feelings  that  raged  within  his  bosom  through 
out  this  fond  and  tender,  yet  painful  and  embarrassing  visit, 
are  touchingly  depicted  in  lines  which  he  wrote  immediately 
afterward,  and  which,  though  not  addressed  to  her  by  name, 
are  evidently  intended  for  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  fair  lady 
of  Annesley : 

"  Well !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 

That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too; 
For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband's  blest— and  'twill  impart 

Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot: 
But  let  them  pass— Oh!  how  my  heart 

Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not! 

44  When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child 

I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 
But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

44 1  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 
And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

"  Mary,  adieu !  I  must  away: 

While  thou  art  blest  I'll  not  repine; 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay: 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 


ANNESLET  HALL.  93 

"  I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 

Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame; 
Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  save  love,  the  same. 

"  Yet  I  was  calm:  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 
But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime— 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

"  I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there : 
One  only  feeling  could'st  thou  trace; 
(  The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

"  Away !  away !  my  early  dream 

Remembrance  never  must  awake : 
Oh!  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break." 

The  revival  of  this  early  passion,  and  the  melancholy  asso 
ciations  which  it  spread  over  those  scenes  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Newstead,  which  would  necessarily  be  the  places  of  his  fre 
quent  resort  while  in  England,  are  alluded  to  by  him  as  a  prin 
cipal  cause  of  his  first  departure  for  the  Continent : 

.     "  When  man  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers 

A  moment  lingered  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recalled  the  vanish'd  hours, 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

"  But  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 

He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 
Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 

And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

i 

"  Thus,  Mary,  must  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 
For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before." 

It  was  in  the  subsequent  June  that  he  set  off  on  his  pilgrim 
age  by  sea  and  land,  which  was  to  become  the  theme  of  his  im 
mortal  poem.  That  the  image  of  Mary  Chaworth,  as  he  saw 
and  loved  her  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  followed  him  to  the 
very  shore,  is  shown  in  the  glowing  stanzas  addressed  to  her 
pn  the  eve  of  embarkation — 

"  'Tis  done— and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast, 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  fresh'ning  blast; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 


94  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting  place; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

"  To  think  of  every  early  scene, 
Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we've  been, 
Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe — 
But  mine,  alas  I  has  stood  the  blow ; 
Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun, 
And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

"  And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see, 
And  why  that  early  love  was  cross'd, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

"  I've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
With  charms,  perchance,  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

"  'Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
His  home,  his  hope,  his  youth  are  gone, 
Yet  still  he  loves,  and  loves  but  one." 

The  painful  interview  at  Annesley  Hall,  which  revived  with 
such  intenseness  his  early  passion,  remained  stamped  upon  his 
memory  with  singular  force,  and  seems  to  have  survived  all 
his  "wandering  through  distant  climes,"  to  which  he  trusted 
as  an  oblivious  antidote.  Upward  of  two  years  after  that 
event,  when,  having  made  his  famous  pilgrimage,  he  was  once 
more  an  inmate  of  Newstead  Abbey,  his  vicinity  to  Annesley 
Hall  brought  the  whole  scene  vividly  before  him,  and  he  thus 
recalls  it  in  a  poetic  epistle  to  a  friend — 

"  I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride,— 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child : — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain. 


ANNESLET  HALL  95 

"  And  I  have  acted  well  my  part, 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Returned  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave; — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd,  alas!  in  each  caress, 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less." 

"It  was  about  the  time,"  says  Moore  in  his  life  of  Lord 
Byron,  "when  he  was  thus  bitterly  feeling  and  expressing 
the  blight  which  his  heart  had  suffered  from  a  real  object 
of  affection,  that  his  poems  on  an  imaginary  one,  'Thyrza,' 
were  written."  He  was  at  the  same  time  grieving  over  the 
loss  of  several  of  his  earliest  and  dearest  friends  the  com 
panions  of  his  joyous  school -boy  hours.  To  recur  to  the 
beautiful  language  of  Moore,  who  writes  with  the  kindred 
and  kindling  sympathies  of  a  true  poet:  "All  these  recol 
lections  of  the  young  and  the  dead  mingled  themselves 
in  his  mind  with  the  image  of  her,  who,  though  living,  was 
for  him,  as  much  lost  as  they,  and  diffused  that  general  feel 
ing  of  sadness  and  fondness  through  his  soul,  which  found  a 
a  vent  in  these  poems.  ...  It  was  the  blending  of  the  two 
affections  in  his  memory  and  imagination,  that  gave  birth  to 
an  ideal  object  combining  the  best  features  of  both,  and  drew 
from  him  those  saddest  and  tenderest  of  love  poems,  in  which 
we  find  all  the  depth  and  intensity  of  real  f  eeling,  touched  over 
with  such  a  light  as  no  reality  ever  wore." 

An  early,  innocent,  and  unfortunate  passion,  however  fruit 
ful  of  pain  it  may  be  to  the  man,  is  a  lasting  advantage  to  the 
poet.  It  is  a  well  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies ;  of  refined  and 
gentle  sentiments ;  of  elevated  and  ennobling  thoughts ;  shut  up 
in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart,  keeping  it  green  amidst  the 
withering  blights  of  the  world,  and,  by  its  casual  gushings  and 
overflowings,  recalling  at  times  all  the  freshness,  and  inno 
cence,  and  enthusiasm  of  youthful  days.  Lord  Byron  was  con 
scious  of  this  effect,  and  purposely  cherished  and  brooded  over 
the  remembrance  of  his  early  passion,  and  of  all  the  scenes  of 
Annesley  Hall  connected  with  it.  It  was  this  remembrance 
that  attuned  his  mind  to  some  of  its  most  elevated  and  virtuous 
strains,  and  shed  an  inexpressible  grace  and  pathos  over  his 
best  productions. 

Being  thus  put  upon  the  traces  of  this  little  love-story,  I  can 
not  refrain  from  threading  them  out,  as  they  appear  from  time 
to  time  in  various  passages  of  Lord  Byron's  works.  During 


96  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

his  subsequent  rambles  in  tbe  East,  when  time  and  distance 
had  softened  away  his  ' '  early  romance"  almost  into  the  remem 
brance  of  a  pleasing  and  tender  dream,  he  received  accounts  of 
the  object  of  it,  which  represented  her,  still  in  her  paternal 
Hall,  among  her  native  bowers  of  Annesley,  surrounded  by  a 
blooming  and  beautiful  family,  yet  a  prey  to  secret  and  wither 
ing  melancholy — 

"  In  her  home, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his,— her  native  home, 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 

Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty,  but — behold  1  , 

Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 

The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lids  were  charged  with  unshed  tears." 

For  an  instant  the  buried  tenderness  of  early  youth  and  the 
fluttering  hopes  which  accompanied  it,  seemed  to  have  revived 
in  his  bosom,  and  the  idea  to  have  flashed  upon  his  mind  that 
his  image  might  be  connected  with  her  secret  woes — but  he 
rejected  the  thought  almost  as  soon  as  formed. 

"  What  could  her  grief  be?— she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill  repress'd  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be? — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past." 

The  cause  of  her  grief  was  a  matter  of  rural  comment  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Newstead  and  Annesley.  It  was  disconnected 
from  all  idea  of  Lord  Byron,  but  attributed  to  the  harsh  and 
capricious  conduct  of  one  to  whose  kindness  and  affection  she 
had  a  sacred  claim.  The  domestic  sorrows  which  had  long 
preyed  in  secret  on  her  heart,  at  length  affected  her  intellect, 
and  the  ' '  bright  morning  star  of  Annesley"  was  eclipsed  f 01 
ever. 

"  The  lady  of  his  /ove, — oh!  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm:  but  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy." 


ANNE8LET  HALL.  97 

Notwithstanding  lapse  of  time,  change  of  place,  and  a  suc 
cession  of  splendid  and  spirit-stirring  scenes  in  various  coun 
tries,  the  quiet  and  gentle  scene  of  his  boyish  love  seems  to 
have  held  a  magic  sway  over  the  recollections  of  Lord  Byron, 
and  the  image  of  Mary  Chaworth  to  have  unexpectedly  ob 
truded  itself  upon  his  mind  like  some  supernatural  visitation. 
Such  was  the  fact  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  with  Miss 
Milbanke ;  Annesley  Hall  and  all  its  fond  associations  floated 
like  a  vision  before  his  thoughts,  even  when  at  the  altar,  and 
on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  nuptial  vows.  The  circum 
stance  is  related  by  him  with  a  force  and  feeling  that  persuade 
us  of  its  truth. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  returned. — I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar— with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  star-light  of  his  boyhood ;— as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self -same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  hi  its  solitude;  and  then — 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
•Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  beard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him:  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been~ 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time?" 

The  history  of  Lord  Byron's  union  is  too  well  known  to  need 
narration.  The  errors,  and  humiliations,  and  heart-burnings 
that  followed  upon  it,  gave  additional  effect  to  the  remem 
brance  of  his  early  passion,  and  tormented  him  with  the  idea, 
that  bad  he  been  successful  in  his  suit  to  the  lovely  heiress 
of  Annesley,  they  might  both  have  shared  a  happier  destiny. 
In  one  of  his  manuscripts,  written  long  after  his  marriage, 
having  accidentally  mentioned  Miss  Chaworth  as  "my  M.  A. 
C."  "Alas!"  exclaims  he,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  feeling, 
"why  do  I  say  my  ?  Our  union  would  have  healed  feuds  in 
which  blood  had  been  shed  by  our  fathers ;  it  would  have  joined 
Lands  broad  and  rich ;  it  would  have  joined  at  least  one  heart, 


96  NEWSTEAD  ABBE7. 

and  two  persons  not  ill-matched  in  years — and— and — and- 
what  has  been  the  result?" 

But  enough  of  Annesley  Hall  and  the  poetical  themes  con 
nected  with  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  linger  for  hours  about  its 
ruined  oratory,  and  silent  hall,  and  neglected  garden,  and  spin 
reveries  and  dream  dreams,  until  all  became  an  ideal  world 
around  me.  The  day,  however,  was  fast  declining,  and  the 
shadows  of  evening  throwing  deeper  shades  of  melancholy 
about  the  place.  Taking  our  leave  of  the  worthy  old  house 
keeper,  therefore,  with  a  small  compensation  and  many  thanks 
for  her  civilities,  we  mounted  our  horses  and  pursued  our  way 
back  to  Newstead  Abbey. 


THE   LAKE. 

"  BEFORE  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 
By  a  river,  which  its  softened  way  did  take 

In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 
Around:  the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 

A.nd  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed: 
The  woods  sloped  downward  to  its  brink,  and  stood 
With  their  green  faces  fixed  upon  the  flood." 

Such  is  Lord  Byron's  description  of  one  of  a  series  of  beauti 
ful  sheets  of  water,  formed  in  old  times  by  the  monks  by  dam 
ming  up  the  course  of  a  small  river.  Here  he  used  daily  to 
enjoy  his  favorite  recreations  in  swimming  and  sailing.  The 
"wicked  old  Lord,"  in  his  scheme  of  rural  devastation,  had 
cut  down  all  the  woods  that  once  fringed  the  lake ;  Lord  Byron, 
on  coming  of  age,  endeavored  to  restore  them,  and  a  beautiful 
young  wood,  planted  by  him,  now  sweeps  up  from  the  water's 
edge,  and  clothes  the  hillside  opposite  to  the  Abbey.  To  this 
woody  nook  Colonel  Wildman  has  given  the  appropriate  title 
of  "the  Poet's  Corner." 

The  lake  has  inherited  its  share  of  the  traditions  and  fables 
connected  with  everything  in  and  about  the  Abbey.  It  was  a 
petty  Mediterranean  sea  on  which  the  "  wicked  old  Lord  "  used 
to  gratify  his  nautical  tastes  and  humors.  He  had  his  mimic 
castles  and  fortresses  along  its  shores,  and  his  mimic  fleets 
upon  its  waters,  and  used  to  get  up  mimic  sea-fights.  The 


TllS  LAKE.  90 

remains  of  his  petty  fortifications  still  awaken  the  curious 
inquiries  of  visitors.  In  one  of  his  vagaries,  he  caused  a  large 
vessel  to  be  brought  on  wheels  from  the  sea-coast  and  launched 
in  the  lake.  The  country  people  were  surprised  to  see  a  ship 
thus  sailing  over  dry  land.  They  called  to  mind  a  saying  of 
Mother  Shipton,  the  famous  prophet  of  the  vulgar,  that  when 
ever  a  ship  freighted  with  ling  should  cross  Sherwood  Forest, 
Newstead  would  pass  out  of  the  Byron  family.  The  country 
people,  who  detested  the  old  Lord,  were  anxious  to  verify  the 
prophecy.  Ling,  in  the  dialect  of  Nottingham,  is  the  name  for 
heather;  with  this  plant  they  heaped  the  fated  bark  as  it 
passed,  so  that  it  arrived  full  freighted  at  Newstead. 

The  most  important  stories  about  the  lake,  however,  relate  to 
the  treasures  that  are  supposed  to  lie  buried  in  its  bosom.  These 
may  have  taken  their  origin  in  a  fact  which  actually  occurred. 
There  was  one  time  fished  up  from  the  deep  part  of  the  lake  a 
great  eagle  of  molten  brass,  with  expanded  wings,  standing  on 
a  pedestal  or  perch  of  the  same  metal.  It  had  doubtless  served 
as  a  stand  or  reading-desk,  in  the  Abbey  chapel,  to  hold  a  folio 
Bible  or  missal. 

The  sacred  relic  was  sent  to  a  brazier  to  be  cleaned.  As  he 
was  at  work  upon  it,  he  discovered  that  the  pedestal  was  hollow 
and  composed  of  several  pieces.  Unscrewing  these,  he  drew 
forth  a  number  of  parchment  deeds  and  grants  appertaining  to 
the  Abbey,  and  bearing  the  seals  of  Edward  III.  and  Henry 
VIII.,  which  had  thus  been  concealed,  and  ultimately  sunk  in 
the  lake  by  the  friars,  to  substantiate  their  right  and  title  to 
these  domains  at  some  future  day. 

One  of  the  parchment  scrolls  thus  discovered,  throws  rather 
an  awkward  light  upon  the  kind  of  life  led  by  the  friars  of 
Newstead.  It  is  an  indulgence  granted  to  them  for  a  certain 
number  of  months,  in  which  plenary  pardon  is  assured  in 
advance  for  all  kinds  of  crimes,  among  which,  several  of  the 
most  gross  and  sensual  are  specifically  mentioned,  and  the 
weakness  of  the  flesh  to  which  they  are  prone. 

After  inspecting  these  testimonials  of  monkish  Me,  in  the 
regions  of  Sherwood  Forest,  we  cease  to  wonder  at  the  virtuous 
indignation  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  outlaw  crew,  at  the  sleek 
sensualists  of  the  cloister: 

•*  I  never  hurt  the  husbandman, 

That  use  to  till  the  ground, 
Nor  spill  their  blood  that  range  the  wood 
To  follow  hawk  and  hound. 


100  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  My  chiefest  spite  to  clergy  Is, 

Who  in  these  days  bear  sway; 
With  friars  and  monks  with  their  fine  spunks, 
I  make  my  chiefest  prey."— OLD  BALLAD  OF  ROBIN  HOOD. 

The  brazen  eagle  has  been  transferred  to  the  parochial  and 
collegiate  church  of  Southall,  about  twenty  miles  from  New- 
stead,  where  it  may  still  be  seen  in  the  centre  of  the  chancel, 
supporting,  as  of  yore,  a  ponderous  Bible.  As  to  the  docu 
ments  it  contained,  they  are  carefully  treasured  up  by  Colonel 
Wildman  among  his  other  deeds  and  papers,  in  an  iron  chest 
secured  by  a  patent  lock  of  nine  bolts,  almost  equal  to  a  magic 
spell. 

The  fishing  up  of  this  brazen  relic,  as  I  have  already  hinted, 
has  given  rise  to  the  tales  of  treasure  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lake,  thrown  in  there  by  the  monks  when  they  abandoned  the 
Abbey.  The  favorite  story  is,  that  there  is  a  great  iron  chest 
there  filled  with  gold  and  jewels,  and  chalices  and  crucifixes. 
Nay,  that  it  has  been  seen,  when  the  water  of  the  lake  was 
unusually  low.  There  were  large  iron  rings  at  each  end,  but 
all  attempts  to  move  it  were  ineffectual ;  either  the  gold  it  con 
tained  was  too  ponderous,  or  what  is  more  probable,  it  was 
secured  by  one  of  those  magic  spells  usually  laid  upon  hidden 
treasure.  It  remains,  therefore,  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  to 
this  day ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  may  one  day  or  other  be  dis 
covered  by  the  present  worthy  proprietor. 


EOBIN  HOOD  AND  SHERWOOD  FOREST. 

WHILE  at  Newstead  Abbey  I  took  great  delight  in  riding  and 
rambling  about  the  neighborhood,  studying  out  the  traces  of 
merry  Sherwood  Forest,  and  visiting  the  haunts  of  Robin 
Hood.  The  relics  of  the  old  forest  are  few  and  scattered,  but 
as  to  the  bold  outlaw  who  once  held  a  kind  of  f  reebooting  sway 
over  it,  there  is  scarce  a  hill  or  dale,  a  cliff  or  cavern,  a  well  or 
fountain,  in  this  part  of  the  country,  that  is  not  connected  with 
his  memory.  The  very  names  of  some  of  the  tenants  on  the 
Newstead  estate,  such  as  Beardall  and  Hardstaff,  sound  as  if 
they  may  have  been  borne  in  old  times  by  some  of  the  stalwart 
fellows  of  the  outlaw  gang. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  SHERWOOD  FOREST.  101 

One  of  the  earliest  books  that  captivated  my  fancy  when  a 
child,  was  a  collection  of  Robin  Hood  ballads,  "adorned  with 
cuts,"  which  I  bought  of  an  old  Scotch  pedler,  at  the  cost  of  all 
my  holiday  money.  How  I  devoured  its  pages,  and  gazed 
upon  its  uncouth  woodcuts !  For  a  time  my  mind  was  filled 
with  picturings  of  "merry  Sherwood,"  and  the  exploits  and 
revelling  of  the  bold  foresters ;  and  Robin  Hood,  Little  John, 
Friar  Tuck,  and  their  doughty  compeers,  were  my  heroes  of 
romance. 

These  early  feelings  were  in  some  degree  revived  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  very  heart  of  the  far-famed  forest,  and,  as 
I  said  before,  I  took  a  kind  of  schoolboy  delight  in  hunting  up 
all  traces  of  old  Sherwood  and  its  sylvan  chivalry.  One  of  the 
first  of  my  antiquarian  rambles  was  on  horseback,  in  company 
with  Colonel  Wildman  and  his  lady,  who  undertook  to  guide 
me  to  some  of  the  moldering  monuments  of  the  forest.  One  of 
these  stands  in  front  of  the  very  gate  of  Newstead  Park,  and  is 
known  throughout  the  country  by  the  name  of  "  The  Pilgrim 
Oak."  It  is  a  venerable  tree,  of  great  size,  overshadowing  a 
wide  arena  of  the  road.  Under  its  shade  the  rustics  of  the 
neighborhood  have  been  accustomed  to  assemble  on  certain 
holidays,  and  celebrate  their  rural  festivals.  This  custom  had 
been  handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  several  generations, 
until  the  oak  had  acquired  a  kind  of  sacred  character. 

The  ' '  old  Lord  Byron, "  however,  in  whose  eyes  nothing  was 
sacred,  when  he  laid  his  desolating  hand  on  the  groves  and 
forests  of  Newstead,  doomed  likewise  this  traditional  tree  to 
the  axe.  Fortunately  the  good  people  of  Nottingham  heard 
of  the  danger  of  their  favorite  oak,  and  hastened  to  ransom 
it  from  destruction.  They  afterward  made  a  present  of  it 
to  the  poet,  when  he  came  to  the  estate,  and  the  Pilgrim  Oak 
is  likely  to  continue  a  rural  gathering  place  for  many  coming 
generations. 

From  this  magnificent  and  time-honored  tree  we  continued 
on  our  sylvan  research,  in  quest  of  another  oak,  of  more  an 
cient  date  and  less  flourishing  condition.  A  ride  of  two  or  three 
miles,  the  latter  part  across  open  wastes,  once  clothed  with 
forest,  now  bare  and  cheerless,  brought  us  to  the  tree  in  ques 
tion.  It  was  the  Oak  of  Ravenshead,  one  of  the  last  survivors 
of  old  Sherwood,  and  which  had  evidently  once  held  a  high 
head  in  the  forest ;  it  was  now  a  mere  wreck,  crazed  by  time, 
and  blasted  by  lightning,  and  standing  alone  on  a  naked  waste, 
like  a  ruined  column  in  a  desert. 


102  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare, 
Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 
When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon  lonely  oak,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now, 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough. 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made. 
Here  in  my  shade,  methinks  he'd  say, 
The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay, 
While  doe,  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green-wood." 

At  no  great  distance  from  Kavenshead  Oak  is  a  small  cave 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  Robin  Hood's  stable.  It  is  in  the 
breast  of  a  hill,  scooped  out  of  brown  freestone,  with  rude  at 
tempt  at  columns  and  arches.  Within  are  two  niches,  which 
served,  it  is  said,  as  stalls  for  the  bold  outlaw's  horses.  To  this 
retreat  he  retired  when  hotly  pursued  by  the  law,  for  the  place 
was  a  secret  even  from  his  band.  The  cave  is  overshadowed 
by  an  oak  and  alder,  and  is  hardly  discoverable  even  at  the 
present  day ;  but  when  the  country  was  overrun  with  forest  it 
must  have  been  completely  concealed. 

There  was  an  agreeable  wildness  and  loneliness  in  a  great 
part  of  our  ride.  Our  devious  road  wound  down,  at  one  time 
among  rocky  dells,  by  wandering  streams,  and  lonely  pools, 
haunted  by  shy  water-fowl.  We  passed  through  a  skirt  of 
woodland,  of  more  modern  planting,  but  considered  a  legiti 
mate  offspring  of  the  ancient  forest,  and  commonly  called  Jock 
of  Sherwood.  In  riding  through  these  quiet,  solitary  scenes, 
the  partridge  and  pheasant  would  now  and  then  burst  upon  the 
wing,  and  the  hare  scud  away  before  us. 

Another  of  these  rambling  rides  in  quest  of  popular  antiqui 
ties,  was  to  a  chain  of  rocky  cliffs,  called  the  Kirkby  Crags, 
which  skirt  the  Robin  Hood  hills.  Here,  leaving  my  horse  at 
the  foot  of  the  crags,  I  scaled  their  rugged  sides,  and  seated 
myself  in  a  niche  of  the  rocks,  called  Robin  Hood's  chair.  It 
commands  a  wide  prospect  over  the  valley  of  Newstead,  and 
here  the  bold  outlaw  is  said  to  have  taken  his  seat,  and  kept  a 
look-out  upon  the  roads  below,  watching  for  merchants,  and 
bishops,  and  other  wealthy  travellers,  upon  whom  to  pounce 
down,  like  an  eagle  from  his  eyrie. 

Descending  from  the  cliffs  and  remounting  my  horse,  a  ride 
of  a  mile  or  two  further  along  a  narrow  "robber  path,"  as  it 
was  called,  which  wound  up  into  the  hills  between  perpendicu- 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  SHERWOOD  FOREST.  1Q3 

lar  rocks,  led  to  an  artificial  cavern  cut  in  the  face  of  a  cliff, 
with  a  door  and  window  wrought  through  the  living  stone. 
This  bears  the  name  of  Friar  Tuck's  cell,  or  hermitage,  where, 
according  to  tradition,  that  jovial  anchorite  used  to  make  good 
cheer  and  boisterous  revel  with  his  freebooting  comrades. 

Such  were  some  of  the  vestiges  of  old  Sherwood  and  its  re 
nowned  "yeomandrie,"  which  I  visited  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Newstead.  The  worthy  clergyman  who  officiated  as  chaplain 
at  the  Abbey,  seeing  my  zeal  in  the  cause,  informed  me  of  a 
considerable  tract  of  the  ancient  forest,  still  in  existence  about 
ten  miles  distant.  There  were  many  fine  old  oaks  in  it,  he  said, 
that  had  stood  for  centuries,  but  were  now  shattered  and 
"stag-headed,"  that  is  to  say,  their  upper  branches  were  bare, 
and  blasted,  and  straggling  out  like  the  antlers  of  a  deer. 
Their  trunks,  too,  were  hollow,  and  full  of  crows  and  jackdaws, 
who  made  them  their  nestling  places.  He  occasionally  rode 
over  to  the  forest  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  and  pleased 
himself  with  loitering  in  the  twilight  about  the  green  alleys  and 
under  the  venerable  trees. 

The  description  given  by  the  chaplain  made  me  anxious  to 
visit  this  remnant  of  old  Sherwood,  and  he  kindly  offered  to  be 
my  guide  and  companion.  We  accordingly  sallied  forth  one 
morning  on  horseback  on  this  sylvan  expedition.  Our  ride 
took  us  through  a  part  of  the  country  where  King  John  had 
once  held  a  hunting  seat ;  the  ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen. 
At  that  time  the  whole  neighborhood  was  an  open  royal  forest, 
or  Frank  chase,  as  it  was  termed ;  for  King  John  was  an  enemy 
to  parks  and  warrens,  and  other  inclosures,  by  which  game 
was  fenced  in  for  the  private  benefit  and  recreation  of  the 
nobles  and  the  clergy. 

Here,  on  the  brow  of  a  gentle  hill,  commanding  an  extensive 
prospect  of  what  had  once  been  forest,  stood  another  of  those 
monumental  trees,  which,  to  my  mind,  gave  a  peculiar  interest 
to  this  neighborhood.  It  was  the  Parliament  Oak,  so  called  in 
memory  of  an  assemblage  of  the  kind  held  by  King  John  be 
neath  its  shade.  The  lapse  of  upward  of  six  centuries  had 
reduced  this  once  mighty  tree  to  a  mere  crumbling  fragment, 
yet,  like  a  gigantic  torso  in  ancient  statuary,  the  grandeur  of 
the  mutilated  trunk  gave  evidence  of  what  it  had  been  in  the 
days  of  its  glory.  In  contemplating  its  mouldering  remains, 
the  fancy  busied  itself  in  calling  up  the  scene  that  must  have 
been  presented  beneath  its  shade,  when  this  sunny  hill  swarmed 
with  the  pageantry  of  a  warlike  and  hunting  court.  When 


104  NEWSTEAV  ABBEY. 

silken  pavilions  and  warrior-tents  decked  its  crest,  and  royal 
standards,  and  baronial  banners,  and  knightly  pennons  rolled 
out  to  the  breeze.  When  prelates  and  courtiers,  and  steel-clad 
chivalry  thronged  round  the  person  of  the  monarch,  while  at  a 
distance  loitered  the  foresters  in  green,  and  all  the  rural  and 
hunting  train  that  waited  upon  his  sylvan  sports. 

'  A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round 
With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 
And  falc'ners  hold  the  ready  hawk; 
And  foresters  in  green-wood  trim 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  greyhound  grim." 

Such  was  the  phantasmagoria  that  presented  itself  for  a 
moment  to  my  imagination,  peopling  the  silent  place  before  me 
with  empty  shadows  of  the  past.  The  reverie  however  was 
transient;  king,  courtier,  and  steel-clad  warrior,  and  forester 
in  green,  with  horn,  and  hawk,  and  hound,  all  faded  again 
into  oblivion,  and  I  awoke  to  all  that  remained  of  this  once 
stirring  scene  of  human  pomp  and  power — a  mouldering  oak, 
and  a  tradition. 

"  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of!" 

A  ride  of  a  few  miles  farther  brought  us  at  length  among  the 
venerable  and  classic  shades  of  Sherwood.  Here  I  was  de 
lighted  to  find  myself  in  a  genuine  wild  wood,  of  primitive 
and  natural  growth,  so  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  this  thickly 
peopled  and  highly  cultivated  country.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
aboriginal  forests  of  my  native  land.  I  rode  through  natural 
alleys  and  green- wood  groves,  carpeted  with  grass  and  shaded 
by  lofty  and  beautiful  birches.  What  most  interested  me, 
however,  was  to  behold  around  me  the  mighty  trunks  of  vet 
eran  oaks,  old  monumental  trees,  the  patriarchs  of  Sherwood 
Forest.  They  were  shattered,  hollow,  and  moss-grown,  it  is 
true,  and  their  "leafy  honors"  were  nearly  departed;  but  like 
mouldering  towers  they  were  noble  and  picturesque  in  their 
decay,  and  gave  evidence,  even  in  their  rums,  of  their  ancient 
grandeur. 

As  I  gazed  about  me  upon  these  vestiges  of  once  "Merrie 
Sherwood,"  the  picturings  of  my  boyish  fancy  began  to  rise  in 
my  mind,  and  Robin  Hood  and  his  men  to  stand  before  me. 

"  He  clothed  himself  in  scarlet  then, 

His  men  were  all  in  green ; 
A  finer  show  throughout  the  world 
In  no  place  could  be  seen. 


ROBIN  IIOOD  AND  SIIERWOOD  FOREST.  105 

"  Good  lord !  it  was  a  gallant  sight 

To  see  them  all  in  a  row; 
With  every  man  a  good  broad-sword 
And  eke  a  good  yew  bow." 

The  horn  of  Robin  Hood  again  seemed  to  resound  through 
the  forest.  I  saw  this  sylvan  chivalry,  half  huntsmen,  hali 
freebooters,  trooping  across  the  distant  glades,  or  feasting  and 
revelling  beneath  the  trees ;  I  was  going  on  to  embody  in  this 
way  all  the  ballad  scenes  that  had  delighted  me  when  a  boy, 
when  the  distant  sound  of  a  wood-cutter's  axe  roused  me  from 
my  day-dream. 

The  boding  apprehensions  which  it  awakened  were  too  soon 
verified.  I  had  not  ridden  much  farther,  when  I  came  to 
an  open  space  where  the  work  of  destruction  was  going  on. 
Around  me  lay  the  prostrate  trunks  of  venerable  oaks,  once 
the  towering  and  magnificent  lords  of  the  forest,  and  a  number 
of  wood-cutters  were  hacking  and  hewing  at  another  gigantic 
tree,  just  tottering  to  its  fall. 

Alas!  for  old  Sherwood  Forest:  it  had  fallen  into  the  posses 
sion  of  a  noble  agriculturist ;  a  modern  utilitarian,  who  had  no 
feeling  for  poetry  or  forest  scenery.  In  a  little  while  and  thia 
glorious  woodland  will  be  laid  low ;  its  green  glades  be  turned 
into  sheep-walks ;  its  legendary  bowers  supplanted  by  turnip- 
fields;  and  "Merrie  Sherwood"  will  exist  but  in  ballad  and 
tradition. 

"O  for  the  poetical  superstitions,"  thought  I,  "of  the  olden 
time !  that  shed  a  sanctity  over  every  grove ;  that  gave  to  each 
tree  its  tutelar  genius  or  nymph,  and  threatened  disaster  to  all 
vrho  should  molest  the  hamadryads  in  their  leafy  abodes. 
Alas !  for  the  sordid  propensities  of  modern  days,  when  every 
thing  is  coined  into  gold,  and  this  once  holiday  planet  of  ours 
is  turned  into  a  mere  'working-day  world."* 

My  cobweb  fancies  put  to  flight,  and  my  feelings  out  of  tune, 
t  left  the  forest  in  a  far  different  mood  from  that  in  which  I 
had  entered  it,  and  rode  silently  along  until,  on  reaching  the 
eummit  of  a  gentle  eminence,  the  chime  of  evening  bells  came 
on  the  breeze  across  the  heath  from  a  distant  village. 

I  paused  to  listen. 

"  They  are  merely  the  evening  bells  of  Mansfield,"  said  my 
companion. 

"Of  Mansfield!"  Here  was  another  of  the  legendary  names 
of  this  storied  neighborhood,  that  called  up  early  and  pleasant 
associations.  The  famous  old  ballad  of  the  King  and  the 


106  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Milter  of  Mansfield  came  at  once  to  mind,  and  the  chime  ot 
the  bells  put  me  again  in  good  humor. 

A  little  farther  on,  and  we  were  again  on  the  traces  of  Robin 
Hood.  Here  was  Fountain  Dale,  where  he  had  his  encounter 
with  that  stalwart  shaveling  Friar  Tuck,  who  was  a  kind  of 
saint  militant,  alternately  wearing  the  casque  and  the  cowl: 

"  The  curt»l  f  ryar  kept  Fountain  dale 

Seven  long  years  and  more, 
There  was  neither  lord,  knight  or  earl 
Could  make  him  yield  before." 

The  moat  is  still  shown  which  is  said  to  have  surrounded  the 
stronghold  of  this  jovial  and  fighting  friar;  and  the  place 
where  he  and  Robin  Hood  had  their  sturdy  trial  of  strength 
and  prowess,  in  the  memorable  conflict  which  lasted 

"  From  ten  o'clock  that  very  day 
Until  four  in  the  afternoon," 

and  ended  in  the  treaty  of  fellowship.  As  to  the  hardy  feats, 
both  of  sword  and  trencher,  performed  by  this  "  curtal  fryar," 
behold  are  they  not  recorded  a*  length  in  the  ancient  ballads, 
and  in  the  magic  pages  of  Ivanhoe? 

The  evening  was  fast  coming  on,  and  the  twilight  thickening, 
as  we  rode  through  these  haunts  famous  in  outlaw  story.  A 
melancholy  seemed  to  gather  over  the  landscape  as  we  pro 
ceeded,  for  our  course  lay  by  shadowy  woods,  and  across 
naked  heaths,  and  along  lonely  roads,  marked  by  some  of 
those  sinister  names  by  which  the  country  people  in  England 
are  apt  to  make  dreary  places  still  more  dreary.  The  horrors 
of  "Thieves' Wood,"  and  the  "Murderers'  Stone,"  and  "the 
Hag  Nook,"  had  all  to  be  encountered  in  the  gathering  gloom 
of  evening,  and  threatened  to  beset  our  path  with  more  than 
mortal  peril.  Happily,  however,  we  passed  these  ominous 
places  unharmed,  and  arrived  in  safety  at  the  portal  of  New- 
Btead  Abbey,  highly  satisfied  with  our  green-wood  foray. 


THE  ROOK  CELL. 

IN  the  course  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey,  I  changed  my 
quarters  from  the  magnificent  old  state  apartment  haunted  by 
Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  to  another  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
ancient  edifice,  immediately  adjoining  the  ruined  chapel.  It 


THE  HOOK  CELL.  107 

possessed  still  more  interest  in  my  eyes,  from  having  been  the 
sleeping  apartment  of  Lord  Byron  during  his  residence  at  the 
Abbey.  The  furniture  remained  the  same.  Here  was  the  bed 
in  which  he  slept,  and  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
college;  its  gilded  posts  surmounted  by  coronets,  giving  evi 
dence  of  his  aristocratical  feelings.  Here  was  likewise  his 
college  sofa;  and  about  the  walls  were  the  portraits  of  his 
favorite  butler,  old  Joe  Murray,  of  his  fancy  acquaintance, 
Jackson  the  pugilist,  together  with  pictures  of  Harrow  School 
and  the  College  at  Cambridge,  at  which  he  was  educated. 

The  bedchamber  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Rook  Cell,  from  its 
vicinity  to  the  Eookery  which,  since  tune  immemorial,  has 
maintained  possession  of  a  solemn  grove  adjacent  to  the  cha 
pel.  This  venerable  community  afforded  me  much  food  for 
speculation  during  my  residence  in  this  apartment.  In  the 
morning  I  used  to  hear  them  gradually  waking  and  seeming  to 
call  each  other  up.  After  a  time,  the  whole  fraternity  would 
be  in  a  flutter-;  some  balancing  and  swinging  on  the  tree  tops, 
others  perched  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Abbey  church,  or  wheel 
ing  and  hovering  about  in  the  air,  and  the  ruined  walls  would 
reverberate  with  their  incessant  cawings.  In  this  way  they 
would  linger  about  the  rookery  and  its  vicinity  for  the  early 
part  of  the  morning,  when,  having  apparently  mustered  all 
their  forces,  called  over  the  roll,  and  determined  upon  their 
line  of  march,  they  one  and  all  would  sail  off  in  a  long  strag 
gling  flight  to  maraud  the  distant  fields.  They  would  forage 
the  country  for  miles,  and  remain  absent  all  day,  excepting 
now  and  then  a  scout  would  come  home,  as  if  to  see  that  all 
was  well.  Toward  night  the  whole  host  might  be  seen,  like  a 
dark  cloud  in  the  distance,  winging  their  way  homeward. 
They  came,  as  it  were,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  wheeling  high 
in  the  air  above  the  Abbey,  making  various  evolutions  before 
they  alighted,  and  then  keeping  up  an  incessant  cawing  in  the 
tree  tops,  until  they  gradually  fell  asleep. 

It  is  remarked  at  the  Abbey,  that  the  rooks,  though  they 
sally  forth  on  forays  throughout  the  week,  yet  keep  about  the 
venerable  edifice  on  Sundays,  as  if  they  had  inherited  a  rev 
erence  for  the  day,  from  their  ancient  confreres,  the  monks. 
Indeed,  a  believer  in  the  metempsychosis  might  easily  imagine 
these  Gothic-looking  birds  to  be  the  embodied  souls  of  the 
ancient  friars  still  hovering  about  their  sanctified  abode. 

I  dislike  to  disturb  any  point  of  popular  and  poetic  faith,  and 
was  loath,  therefore,  to  question  the  authenticity  of  this  mys- 


108  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

terious  reverence  for  the  Sabbath  on  the  part  of  the  Newstead 
rooks ;  but  certainly  hi  the  course  of  my  sojourn  in  the  Rook 
Cell,  I  detected  them  in  a  flagrant  outbreak  and  foray  on  a 
bright  Sunday  morning. 

Beside  the  occasional  clamor  of  the  rookery,  this  remote 
apartment  was  often  greeted  with  sounds  of  a  different  kind, 
from  the  neighboring  ruins.  The  great  lancet  window  in  front 
of  the  chapel,  adjoins  the  very  wall  of  the  chamber ;  and  the 
mysterious  sounds  from  it  at  night  have  been  well  described 
by  Lord  Byron: 

"  Now  loud,  now  frantic, 


The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  when  the  silent  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quenched  like  flre. 

"  But  on  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The  wind  is  winged  from  one  point  of  heaven, 

There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 
Is  musical — a  dying  accent  driven 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 
Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 

Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall, 

And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall. 

"  Others,  that  some  original  shape  or  form, 

Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 
To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm. 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower; 
The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve;  but  such 
The  fact:— I've  heard  it,— once  perhaps  too  much." 

Never  was  a  traveller  in  quest  of  the  romantic  in  greater 
luck.  I  had  in  sooth,  got  lodged  in  another  haunted  apart 
ment  of  the  Abbey ;  for  in  this  chamber  Lord  Byron  declared 
he  had  more  than  once  been  harassed  at  midnight  by  a  mys 
terious  visitor.  A  black  shapeless  form  would  sit  cowering 
upon  his  bed,  and  after  gazing  at  him  for  a  time  with  glaring 
eyes,  would  roll  off  and  disappear.  The  same  uncouth  appari 
tion  is  said  to  have  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  a  newly  married 
couple  that  once  passed  their  honeymoon  in  this  apartment. 

I  would  observe,  that  the  access  to  the  Rook  Cell  is  by  a 
spiral  stone  staircase  leading  up  into  it,  as  into  a  turret,  from 
the  long  shadowy  corridor  over  the  cloisters,  one  of  the  mid 
night  walks  of  the  Goblin  Friar.  Indeed,  to  the  fancies  en 
gendered  in  his  brain  in  this  remote  and  lonely  apartment,  in 
corporated  with  the  floating  superstitions  of  the  Abbey,  we  are 
no  doubt  indebted  for  the  spectral  scene  in  "  Don  Juan," 


THE  ROOK  CELL. 

'*  Then  as  the  night  was  clear,  though  cold,  he  threw 
His  chamber  door  wide  open — and  went  forth 

Into  a  gallery,  of  sombre  hue, 
Long  furnish'd  with  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 

Of  knights  and  dames,  heroic  and  chaste  too, 
As  doubtless  should  be  people  of  high  birth. 

"  No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

Or  step  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house, 

When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 
A  supernatural  agent — or  a  mouse, 

Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 

Most  people,  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

il  It  was  no  mouse,  but  lo !  a  monk,  arrayed 

In  cowl,  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appeared, 

Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade; 
With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unheard; 

His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made; 
He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  sisters  weird, 

But  slowly ;  and  as  he  passed  Juan  by 

Glared,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

"  Juan  was  petrified ;  he  had  heard  a  hint 

Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old, 
But  thought,  like  most  men,  there  was  nothing  int 

Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold, 
Coin'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint, 

Which  passes  ghosts  in  currency  like  gold, 
But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this?  or  was  it  a  vapor? 

"  Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd— the  thing  of  air, 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  t'other  place; 

And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare, 
Yet  could  not  speak  or  move;  but,  on  its  base 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood :  he  felt  his  hair 
Twine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face; 

He  tax'd  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  granted 

To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 

"  The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pause, 

The  shadow  pass'd  away— but  where?  the  hall 

Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 
To  think  its  vanishing  unnatural: 

Doors  there  were  many,  through  which,  by  the  lawi 
Of  physics,  bodies,  whether  short  or  tall, 

Might  come  or  go ;  but  Juan  could  not  state 

Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

*  He  stood,  how  long  he  knew  not,  but  it  seem'd 
An  age— expectant,  powerless,  with  his  eyes 

Straiu'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd: 
Then  by  degrees  recall'd  his  energies, 

And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  off  as  a  dream. 
But  could  not  wake;  he  was,  he  did  surmise, 

Waking  already,  and  return 'd  at  length 

Back  to  his  chamber,  shorn  of  half  bis  strength." 


HO  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

As  I  have  already  observed,  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whe 
ther  Lord  Byron  was  really  subject  to  the  superstitious  fancies 
which  have  been  imputed  to  him,  or  whether  he  merely  amused 
himself  by  giving  currency  to  them  among  his  domestics  and 
dependents.  He  certainly  never  scrupled  to  express  a  belief  in 
supernatural  visitations,  both  verbally  and  in  his  correspond 
ence.  If  such  were  his  foible,  the  Rook  Cell  was  an  admira 
ble  place  to  engender  these  delusions.  As  I  have  lain  awake  at 
night,  I  have  heard  all  kinds  of  mysterious  and  sighing  sounds 
from  the  neighboring  ruin.  Distant  footsteps,  too,  and  the 
closing  of  doors  in  remote  parts  of  the  Abbey,  would  send  hol 
low  reverberations  and  echoes  along  the  corridor  and  up  the 
spiral  staircase.  Once,  in  fact,  I  was  roused  by  a  strange 
sound  at  the  very  door  of  my  chamber.  I  threw  it  open,  and  a 
form  "black  and  shapeless  with  glaring  eyes"  stood  before  me. 
It  proved,  however,  neither  ghost  nor  goblin,  but  my  friend 
Boatswain,  the  great  Newfoundland  dog,  who  had  conceived  a 
companionable  liking  for  me,  and  occasionally  sought  me  in 
my  apartment.  To  the  hauntings  of  even  such  a  visitant  as 
honest  Boatswain  may  we  attribute  some  of  the  marvellous 
stories  about  the  Goblin  Friar. 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY. 

IN  the  course  of  a  morning's  ride  with  Colonel  Wildman, 
about  the  Abbey  lands,  we  found  ourselves  in  one  of  the  pret 
tiest  little  wild  woods  imaginable.  The  road  to  it  had  led  us 
among  rocky  ravines  overhung  with  thickets,  and  now  wound 
through  birchen  dingles  and  among  beautiful  groves  and- 
clumps  of  elms  and  beeches.  A  limpid  rill  of  sparkling  water, 
winding  and  doubling  in  perplexed  mazes,  crossed  our  path 
repeatedly,  so  as  to  give  the  wood  the  appearance  of  being 
watered  by  numerous  rivulets.  The  solitary  and  romantic  look 
of  this  piece  of  woodland,  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  its 
mazy  stream,  put  him  in  mind,  Colonel  Wildman  said,  of  the 
little  German  fairy  tale  of  Undine,  in  which  is  recorded  the 
adventures  of  a  knight  who  had  married  a  water-nymph.  As 
he  rode  with  his  bride  through  her  native  woods,  every  stream 
claimed  her  as  a  relative ;  one  was  a  brother,  another  an  uncle, 
another  a  cousin, 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY.  Hi 

We  rode  on  amusing  ourselves  with  applying  this  fanciful 
tale  to  the  charming  scenery  around  us,  until  we  came  to  a 
lowly  gray-stone  farmhouse,  of  ancient  date,  situated  in  a  soli 
tary  glen,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook,  and  overshadowed  by 
venerable  trees.  It  went  by  the  name,  as  I  was  told,  of  the 
Weir  Mill  farmhouse.  With  this  rustic  mansion  was  connected 
a  little  tale  of  real  life,  some  circumstances  of  which  were 
related  to  me  on  the  spot,  and  others  I  collected  in  the  course 
of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey. 

Not  long  after  Colonel  Wildman  had  purchased  the  estate  of 
Newstead,  he  made  it  a  visit  for  the  purpose  of  planning  repairs 
and  alterations.  As  he  was  rambling  one  evening,  about  dusk, 
in  company  with  his  architect,  through  this  little  piece  of 
woodland,  he  was  struck  with  its  peculiar  characteristics,  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  compared  it  to  the  haunted  wood  of 
Undine.  While  he  was  making  the  remark,  a  small  female 
figure  in  white,  flitted  by  without  speaking  a  word,  or  indeed 
appearing  to  notice  them.  Her  step  was  scarcely  heard  as  she 
passed,  and  her  form  was  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

"What  a  figure  for  a  fairy  or  sprite!"  exclaimed  Colonel 
Wildman.  '.'How  much  a  poet  or  a  romance  writer  would 
make  of  such  an  apparition,  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a 
place!" 

He  began  to  congratulate  himself  "upon  having  some  elfin 
inhabitant  for  his  haunted  wood,  when,  on  proceeding  a  few- 
paces,  he  found  a  white  frill  lying  in  the  path,  which  had  evi 
dently  fallen  from  the  figure  that  had  just  passed. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "after  all,  this  is  neither  sprite  nor  fairy, 
but  a  being  of  flesh,  and  blood,  and  muslin." 

Continuing  on,  he  came  to  where  the  road  passed  by  an  old 
mill  in  front  of  the  Abbey.  The  people  of  the  mill  were  at  the 
door.  He  paused  and  inquired  whether  any  visitor  had  been 
at  the  Abbey,  but  was  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Has  nobody  passed  by  here?" 

"No  one,  sir." 

"  That's  strange  1  Surely  I  met  a  female  in  white,  who  must 
have  passed  along  this  path." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  mean  the  Little  White  Lady — oh,  yes,  she 
passed  by  here  not  long  since." 

' '  The  Little  White  Lady !  And  pray  who  is  the  Little  White 
Lady?" 

"Why,  sir,  that  nobody  knows;  she  lives  in  the  Weir  Mill 
farmhouse,  down  in  the  skirts  of  the  wood.  She  comes  to  the 


112  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Abbey  every  morning,  keeps  about  it  all  day,  and  goes  away 
at  night.  She  speaks  to  nobody,  and  we  are  rather  shy  of  her, 
for  we  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her." 

Colonel  Wildman  now  concluded  that  it  was  some  artist  or 
amateur  employed  in  making  sketches  of  the  Abbey,  and 
thought  no  more  about  the  matter.  He  went  to  London,  and 
was  absent  for  some  time.  In  the  interim,  his  sister,  who  was 
newly  married,  came  with  her  husband  to  pass  the  honeymoon 
at  the  Abbey.  The  Little  White  Lady  still  resided  in  the  Weir 
Mill  farmhouse,  on  the  border  of  the  haunted  wood,  and  con 
tinued  her  visits  daily  to  the  Abbey.  Her  dress  was  always 
the  same,  a  white  gown  with  a  little  black  spencer  or  bodice, 
and  a  white  hat  with  a  short  veil  that  screened  the  upper  part 
of  her  countenance.  Her  habits  were  shy,  lonely,  and  silent ; 
she  spoke  to  no  one,  and  sought  no  companionship,  excepting 
with  the  Newfoundland  dog  that  had  belonged  to  Lord  Byron. 
His  friendship  she  secured  by  caressing  him  and  occasionally 
bringing  him  food,  and  he  became  the  companion  of  her  soli 
tary  walks.  She  avoided  all  strangers,  and  wandered  about 
the  retired  parts  of  the  garden ;  sometimes  sitting  for  hours  by 
the  tree  on  which  Lord  Byron  had  carved  his  name,  or  at  the 
foot  of  the  monument  which  he  had  erected  among  the  ruins 
of  the  chapel.  Sometimes  she  read,  sometimes  she  wrote  with 
a  pencil  on  a  small  slate  which  she  carried  with  her,  but  much 
of  her  time  was  passed  in  a  kind  of  reverie. 

The  people  about  the  place  gradually  became  accustomed  to 
her,  and  suffered  her  to  wander  about  unmolested ;  their  dis 
trust  of  her  subsided  on  discovering  that  most  of  her  peculiar 
and  lonely  habits  arose  from  the  misfortune  of  being  deaf  and 
dumb.  Still  she  was  regarded  with  some  degree  of  shyness, 
for  it  was  the  common  opinion  that  she  was  not  exactly  in  her 
right  mind. 

Colonel  Wildrnan's  sister  was  informed  of  all  these  circum 
stances  by  the  servants  of  the  Abbey,  among  whom  the  Little 
White  Lady  was  a  theme  of  frequent  discussion.  The  Abbey 
and  its  monastic  environs  being  haunted  ground,  it  was  natural 
that  a  mysterious  visitant  of  the  kind,  and  one  supposed  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  mental  hallucination,  should  inspire  awe 
in  a  person  unaccustomed  to  the  place.  As  Colonel  Wildman's 
sister  was  one  day  walking  along  a  broad  terrace  of  the  garden, 
she  suddenly  beheld  the  Little  White  Lady  coming  toward  her, 
and,  in  the  surprise  and  agitation  of  the  moment,  turned  and 
ran  into  the  house. 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY.  113 

Day  after  day  now  elapsed,  and  nothing  more  was  seen  of 
this  singular  personage.  Colonel  Wildman  at  length  arrived 
at  the  Abbey,  and  his  sister  mentioned  to  him  her  rencounter 
and  fright  in  the  garden.  It  brought  to  mind  his  own  adven 
ture  with  the  Little  White  Lady  in  the  wood  of  Undine,  and 
he  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  still  continued  her  mysterious 
wanderings  about  the  Abbey.  The  mystery  was  soon  explained. 
Immediately  after  his  arrival  he  received  a  letter  written  in  the 
most  minute  and  delicate  female  hand,  and  in  elegant  and  even 
eloquent  language.  It  was  from  the  Little  White  Lady.  She 
had  noticed  and  been  shocked  by  the  abrupt  retreat  of  Colonel 
Wildman's  sister  on  seeing  her  in  the  garden  walk,  and  ex 
pressed  her  unhappiness  at  being  an  object  of  alarm  to  any  of 
his  family.  She  explained  the  motives  of  her  frequent  and 
long  visits  to  the  Abbey,  which  proved  to  be  a  singularly  enthu 
siastic  idolatry  of  the  genius  of  Lord  Byron,  and  a  solitary  and 
passionate  delight  in  haunting  the  scenes  he  had  once  inhabited. 
She  hinted  at  the  infirmities  which  cut  her  off  from  all  social 
communion  with  her  fellow  beings,  and  at  her  situation  in  life 
as  desolate  and  bereaved;  and  concluded  by  hoping  that  he 
would  not  deprive  her  of  her  only  comfort,  the  permission  of 
visiting  the  Abbey  occasionally,  and  lingering  about  the  walks 
and  gardens. 

Colonel  Wildman  now  made  further  inquiries  concerning 
her,  and  found  that  she  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  people  of 
the  farmhouse  where  she  boarded,  from  the  gentleness,  quie 
tude,  and  innocence  of  her  manners.  When  at  home,  she 
passed  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  a  small  sitting-room, 
reading  and  writing. 

Colonel  Wildman  immediately  called  on  her  at  the  farm 
house.  She  received  him  with  some  agitation  and  embarrass 
ment,  but  his  frankness  and  urbanity  soon  put  her  at  her  ease. 
She  was  past  the  bloom  of  youth,  a  pale,  nervous  little  being, 
and  apparently  deficient  in  most  of  her  physical  organs,  for  in 
addition  to  being  deaf  and  dumb,  she  saw  but  imperfectly. 
They  carried  on  a  communication  by  means  of  a  small  slate, 
which  she  drew  out  of  her  reticule,  and  on  which  they  wrote 
their  questions  and  replies.  In  writing  or  reading  she  always 
approached  her  eyes  close  to  the  written  characters. 

This  defective  organization  was  accompanied  by  a  morbid 
sensibility  almost  amounting  to  disease.  She  had  not  been 
born  deaf  and  dumb ;  but  had  lost  her  hearing  in  a  fit  of  sick 
ness,  and  with  it  the  power  of  distinct  articulation.  Her  life 


114  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

had  evidently  been  checkered  and  unhappy;  she  was  appar 
ently  without  family  or  friend,  a  lonely,  desolate  being,  cut  off 
from  society  by  her  infirmities. 

"I  am  always  among  strangers,"  she  said,  "as  much  so  in 
my  native  country  as  I  could  be  in  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
world.  By  all  I  am  considered  as  a  stranger  and  an  alien ;  no 
one  will  acknowledge  any  connection  with  me.  I  seem  not  to 
belong  to  the  human  species." 

Such  were  the  circumstances  that  Colonel  Wildman  was  able 
to  draw  forth  in  the  course  of  his  conversation,  and  they  strongly 
interested  him  in  favor  of  this  poor  enthusiast.  He  was  too 
devout  an  admirer  of  Lord  Byron  himself,  not  to  sympathize 
in  this  extraordinary  zeal  of  one  of  his  votaries,  and  he  en 
treated  her  to  renew  her  visits  at  the  Abbey,  assuring  her  that 
the  edifice  and  its  grounds  should  always  be  open  to  her. 

The  Little  White  Lady  now  resumed  her  daily  walks  in  the 
Monk's  Garden,  and  her  occasional  seat  at  the  foot  of  the 
monument ;  she  was  shy  and  diffident,  however,  and  evidently 
fearful  of  intruding.  If  any  persons  were  walking  in  the  gar 
den  she  would  avoid  them,  and  seek  the  most  remote  parts ; 
and  was  seen  like  a  sprite,  only  by  gleams  and  glimpses,  as  she 
glided  among  the  groves  and  thickets.  Many  of  her  feelings 
and  fancies,  during  these  lonely  rambles,  were  embodied  in 
verse,  noted  down  on  her  tablet,  and  transferred  to  paper  in 
the  evening  on  her  return  to  the  farmhouse.  Some  of  these 
verses  now  lie  before  me,  written  with  considerable  harmony 
of  versification,  but  chiefly  curious  as  being  illustrative  of  that 
singular  and  enthusiastic  idolatry  with  which  she  almost  wor 
shipped  the  genius  of  Byron,  or  rather,  the  romantic  image  of 
him  formed  by  her  imagination. 

Two  or  three  extracts  may  not  be  unacceptable.  The  follow^ 
ing  are  from  a  long  rhapsody  addressed  to  Lord  Byron: 

"  By  what  dread  charm  thou  rulest  the  mind 

It  is  not  given  for  us  to  know ; 
We  glow  with  feelings  undefined, 
Nor  can  explain  from  whence  they  flow. 

"  Not  that  fond  love  which  passion  breathes 

And  youthful  hearts  inflame; 

The  soul  a  nobler  homage  gives, 

And  bows  to  thy  great  name. 

"  Oft  have  we  own'd  the  muses'  skill, 

And  proved  the  power  of  song, 
But  sweeter  notes  ne'er  woke  the  thrill 
That  solely  to  thy  verse  belong. 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY.  115 

"  This — but  far  more,  for  thee  we  prove, 
Something  that  bears  a  holier  name, 
Than  the  pure  dream  of  early  love, 
Or  friendship's  nobler  flame. 

"  Something  divine— Oh!  what  it  is 

Thy  muse  alone  can  tell, 
So  sweet,  but  so  profound  the  bliss 
We  dread  to  break  the  spell." 

This  singular  and  romantic  infatuation,  for  such  it  might 
truly  be  called,  was  entirely  spiritual  and  ideal,  for,  as  she 
herself  declares  in  another  of  her  rhapsodies,  she  had  never 
beheld  Lord  Byron;  he  was,  to  her,  a  mere  phantom  of  the 
brain. 

"  I  ne'er  hare  drunk  thy  glance — thy  form 

My  earthly  eye  has  never  seen, 
Though  oft  when  fancy's  visions  warm, 
It  greets  me  in  some  blissful  dream. 

"  Greets  me,  as  greets  the  sainted  seer 

Some  radiant  visitant  from  high, 
When  heaven's  own  strains  break  on  his  ear, 
And  wrap  his  soul  in  ecstasy." 

Her  poetical  wanderings  and  musings  were  not  confined  to 
the  Abbey  grounds,  but  extended  to  all  parts  of  the  neighbor 
hood  connected  with  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron,  and  among 
the  rest  to  the  groves  and  gardens  of  Annesley  Hall,  the  seat 
of  his  early  passion  for  Miss  Chaworth.  One  of  her  poetical 
effusions  mentions  her  having  seen  from  Howet's  Hill  in  Annes 
ley  Park,  a  "sylph-like  form, "in  a  car  drawn  by  milk-white 
horses,  passing  by  the  foot  of  the  hill,  who  proved  to  be  the 
"favorite  child,"  seen  by  Lord  Byron,  in  his  memorable  inter 
view  with  Miss  Chaworth  after  her  marriage.  That  favorite 
child  was  now  a  blooming  girl  approaching  to  womanhood,  and 
seems  to  have  understood  something  of  the  character  and  story 
of  this  singular  visitant,  and  to  have  treated  her  with  gentle 
sympathy.  The  Little  White  Lady  expresses,  in  touching 
terms,  in  a  note  to  her  verses,  her  sense  of  this  gentle  courtesy. 
"The  benevolent  condescension,"  says  she,  "of  that  amiable 
and  interesting  young  lady,  to  the  unfortunate  writer  of  these 
simple  lines  will  remain  engraved  upon  a  grateful  memory,  till 
the  vital  spark  that  now  animates  a  heart  that  too  sensibly 
feels,  and  too  seldom  experiences  such  kindness,  is  forever 
extinct." 

In  the  mean  time,  Colonel  Wildman.  in  occasional  interviews. 


116  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

had  obtained  further  particulars  of  the  story  of  the  stranger, 
and  found  that  poverty  was  added  to  the  other  evils  of  her  for 
lorn  and  isolated  state.  Her  name  was  Sophia  Hyatt.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  country  bookseller,  but  both  her  parents 
had  died  several  years  before.  At  their  death,  her  sole  depend 
ence  was  upon  her  brother,  who  allowed  her  a  small  annuity  on 
her  share  of  the  property  left  by  their  father,  and  which  re 
mained  in  his  hands.  Her  brother,  who  was  a  captain  of  a 
merchant  vessel,  removed  with  his  family  to  America,  leaving 
her  almost  alone  in  the  world,  for  she  had  no  other  relative  in 
England  but  a  cousin,  of  whom  she  knew  almost  nothing.  She 
received  her  annuity  regularly  for  a  time,  but  unfortunately 
her  brother  died  in  the  West  Indies,  leaving  his  affairs  in  con 
fusion,  and  his  estate  overhung  by  several  commercial  claims, 
which  threatened  to  swallow  up  the  whole.  Under  these  dis 
astrous  circumstances,  her  annuity  suddenly  ceased ;  she  had 
hi  vain  tried  to  obtain  a  renewal  of  it  from  the  widow,  or  even 
an  account  of  the  state  of  her  brother's  affairs.  Her  letters  for 
three  years  past  had  remained  unanswered,  and  she  would 
have  been  exposed  to  the  horrors  of  the  most  abject  want,  but 
for  a  pittance  quarterly  doled  out  to  her  by  her  cousin  in 
England. 

Colonel  Wildman  entered  with  characteristic  benevolence 
into  the  story  of  her  troubles.  He  saw  that  she  was  a  helpless, 
unprotected  being,  unable,  from  her  infirmities  and  her  igno 
rance  of  the  world,  to  prosecute  her  just  claims.  He  obtained 
from  her  the  address  of  her  relations  in  America,  and  of  the 
.commercial  connection  of  her  brother;  promised,  through  the 
medium  of  his  own  agents  in  Liverpool,  to  institute  an  inquiry 
into  the  situation  of  her  brother's  affairs,  and  to  forward  any 
letters  she  might  write,  so  as  to  insure  their  reaching  their 
place  of  destination. 

Inspired  with  some  faint  hopes,  the  Little  White  Lady  con 
tinued  her  wanderings  about  the  Abbey  and  its  neighborhood. 
The  delicacy  and  timidity  of  her  deportment  increased  the 
interest  already  felt  for  her  by  Mrs.  Wildman.  That  lady, 
with  her  wonted  kindness,  sought  to  make  acquaintance  with 
her,  and  inspire  her  with  confidence.  She  invited  her  into  the 
Abbey ;  treated  her  with  the  most  delicate  attention,  and,  see 
ing  t£at  she  had  a  great  turn  for  reading,  offered  her  the  loan 
of  any  books  in  her  possession.  She  borrowed  a  few,  particu 
larly  the  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  but  soon  returned  them ; 
the  writings  of  Lord  Byron  seoraed  to  form  the  only  study  in 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY. 

which  she  delighted,  and  when  not  occupied  in  reading  those, 
her  time  was  passed  in  passionate  meditations  on  his  genius. 
Her  enthusiasm  spread  an  ideal  world  around  her  in  which  she 
moved  and  existed  as  in  a  dream,  forgetful  at  times  of  the  real 
miseries  which  beset  her  in  her  mortal  state. 

One  of  her  rhapsodies  is,  however,  of  a  very  melancholy 
cast ;  anticipating  her  own  death,  which  her  fragile  frame  and 
growing  infirmities  rendered  but  too  probable.  It  is  headed  by 
the  following  paragraph. 

"Written  beneath  the  tree  on  Crowholt  Hill,  where  it  is  my 
wish  to  be  interred  (if  I  should  die  in  Newstead)." 

I  subjoin  a  few  of  the  stanzas:  they  are  addressed  to  Lord 
Byron : 

"  Thou,  while  thou  stand'st  beneath  this  tree, 

While  by  thy  foot  this  earth  is  press'd, 
Think,  here  the  wanderer's  ashes  be — 
And  wilt  thou  say,  sweet  be  thy  restl 

"  'Twould  add  even  to  a  seraph's  bliss, 

Whose  sacred  charge  thou  then  may  be, 
To  guide— to  guard— yes,  Byron !  yes, 
That  glory  is  reserved  for  me." 

"  If  woes  below  may  plead  above 

A  frail  heart's  errors,  mine  forgiven, 

To  that '  high  world '  I  soar,  where  '  love 

Surviving'  forms  the  bliss  of  Heaven. 

"  O  wheresoe'er,  in  realms  above, 

Assign'd  my  spirit's  new  abode, 
'Twill  watch  thee  with  a  seraph's  love, 
Till  thou  too  soar'st  to  meet  thy  God. 

"  And  here,  beneath  this  lonely  tree — 

Beneath  the  earth  thy  feet  have  press'd, 
My  dust  shall  sleep— once  dear  to  thee 
These  scenes— here  may  the  wanderer  restl" 

In  the  midst  of  her  reveries  and  rhapsodies,  tidings  reached 
Newstead  of  the  untimely  death  of  Lord  Byron.  How  they 
were  received  by  this  humble  but  passionate  devotee  I  could 
not  ascertain ;  her  life  was  too  obscure  and  lonely  to  furnish 
much  personal  anecdote,  but  among  her  poetical  effusions 
are  several  written  in  a  broken  and  irregular  manner,  and 
evidently  under  great  agitation. 

The  following  sonnet  is  the  most  coherent  and  most  de 
scriptive  of  ber  peculiar  state  of  mind : 


&SWBTBAD  ABBEY. 

"  Well,  thou  art  gone — but  what  wert  thou  to  me? 

I  never  saw  thee— never  heard  thy  voice, 
Yet  my  soul  seemed  to  claim  affiance  with  thee. 

The  Roman  bard  has  sung  of  fields  Elysian, 
Where  the  soul  sojourns  ere  she  visits  earth; 

Sure  it  was  there  my  spirit  knew  thee,  Byron  1 
Thine  image  haunted  me  like  a  past  vision ; 

It  hath  enshrined  itself  in  my  heart's  core; 
'Tis  my  soul's  soul— it  fills  the  whole  creation. 

For  I  do  live  but  in  that  world  ideal 
\Vhich  the  muse  peopled  with  her  bright  fancies, 

And  of  that  world  thou  art  a  monarch  real, 
Nor  ever  earthly  sceptre  ruled  a  kingdom, 

With  sway  so  potent  as  thy  lyre,  the  mind's  dominion." 

Taking  all  the  circumstances  here  adduced  into  considera 
tion,  it  is  evident  that  this  strong  excitement  and  exclusive 
occupation  of  the  mind  upon  one  subject,  operating  upon  a 
system  in  a  high  state  of  morbid  irritability,  was  in  danger  of 
producing  that  species  of  mental  derangement  called  mono 
mania.  The  poor  little  being  was  aware,  herself,  of  the  dangers 
of  her  case,  and  alluded  to  it  in  the  following  passage  of  a 
letter  to  Colonel  Wildman,  which  presents  one  of  the  most 
lamentable  pictures  of  anticipated  evil  ever  conjured  up  by  the 
human  mind. 

"I  have  long,"  writes  she,  "too  sensibly  felt  the  decay  of 
my  mental  faculties,  which  I  consider  as  the  certain  indication 
of  that  dreaded  calamity  which  I  anticipate  with  such  terror. 
A  strange  idea  has  long  haunted  my  mind,  that  Swift's  dread 
ful  fate  will  be  mine.  It  is  not  ordinary  insanity  I  so  much 
apprehend,  but  something  worse — absolute  idiotism ! 

"  O  sir!  think  what  I  must  suffer  from  such  an  idea,  without 
an  earthly  friend  to  look  up  to  for  protection  in  such  a  wretched 
state — exposed  to  the  indecent  insults  which  such  spectacles 
always  excite.  But  I  dare  not  dwell  upon  the  thought:  it 
would  facilitate  the  event  I  so  much  dread,  and  contemplate 
with  horror.  Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  from  people's  be 
havior  to  me  at  times,  and  from  after  reflections  upon  my  con 
duct,  that  symptoms  of  the  disease  are  already  apparent." 

Five  months  passed  away,  but  the  letters  written  by  her, 
and  forwarded  by  Colonel  Wildman  to  America  relative  to 
her  brother's  affairs,  remained  unanswered;  the  inquiries  in 
stituted  by  the  Colonel  had  as  yet  proved  equally  fruitless.  A 
deeper  gloom  and  despondency  now  seemed  to  gather  upon  her 
mind.  She  began  to  talk  of  leaving  Newstead,  and  repairing 
to  London,  in  the  vague  hope  of  obtaining  relief  or  redress  by 


TEE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADT.  119 

instituting  some  legal  process  to  ascertain  and  enforce  the  will 
of  her  deceased  brother.  Weeks  elapsed,  however,  before  she 
could  summon  up  sufficient  resolution  to  tear  herself  away 
from  the  scene  of  poetical  fascination.  The  following  simple 
stanzas,  selected  from  a  number  written  about  the  time,  ex 
press,  in  humble  rhymes,  the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  her 
spirits : 

"  Farewell  to  thee,  Newstead,  thy  time-riven  towers, 
Shall  meet  the  fond  gaze  of  the  pilgrim  no  more; 
No  more  may  she  roam  through  thy  walks  and  thy  bowers, 
Nor  muse  in  thy  cloisters  at  eve's  pensive  hour. 

"  Oh,  how  shall  I  leave  you,  ye  hills  and  ye  dales, 

When  lost  in  sad  musing,  though  sad  not  unblest, 
A  lone  pilgrim  I  stray— Ah !  in  these  lonely  vales, 
I  hoped,  vainly  hoped,  that  the  pOgrim  might  rest. 

"  Yet  rest  is  far  distant — in  the  dark  vale  of  death, 

Alone  I  shall  find  it,  an  outcast  forlorn — 
But  hence  vain  complaints,  though  by  fortune  bereft 
Of  all  that  could  solace  in  life's  early  morn. 

"  Is  not  man  from  his  birth  doomed  a  pilgrim  to  roam 

O'er  the  world's  dreary  wilds,  whence  by  fortune's  rude  gust, 
In  his  path,  if  some  flowret  of  joy  chanced  to  bloom, 
It  is  torn  and  its  foliage  laid  low  in  the  dust." 

At  length  she  fixed  upon  a  day  for  her  departure.  On  the 
day  previous,  she  paid  a  farewell  visit  to  the  Abbey ;  wander 
ing  over  every  part  of  the  grounds  and  garden ;  pausing  and 
lingering  at  every  place  particularly  associated  with  the  recol 
lection  of  Lord  Byron ;  and  passing  a  long  tune  seated  at  the 
foot  of  the  monument,  which  she  used  to  call  "her  altar." 
Seeking  Mrs.  Wildman,  she  placed  in  her  hands  a  sealed  packet, 
with  an  earnest  request  that  she  would  not  open  it  until  after 
her  departure  from  the  neighborhood.  This  done,  she  took  an 
affectionate  leave  of  her,  and  with  many  bitter  tears  bade  fare 
well  to  the  Abbey. 

On  retiring  to  her  room  that  evening,  Mrs.  Wildman  could 
not  refrain  from  inspecting  the  legacy  of  this  singular  being. 
On  opening  the  packet,  she  found  a  number  of  fugitive  poems, 
written  in  a  most  delicate  and  minute  hand,  and  evidently  the 
fruits  of  her  reveries  and  meditations  during  her  lonely  ram 
bles  ;  from  these  the  foregoing  extracts  have  been  made.  These 
were  accompanied  by  a  voluminous  letter,  written  with  the 
pathos  and  eloquence  of  genuine  feeling,  and  depicting  her 


120  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

peculiar  situation  and  singular  state  of  mind  in  '3ark  *>K-c 
ful  colors. 

"The  last  time,"  says  she,  "  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you,  in  the  garden,  you  asked  me  why  I  leave  Newetead  •.  when 
I  told  you  my  circumstances  obliged  me,  the  expression  of  con 
cern  which  I  fancied  I  observed  in  your  look  and  manner  would 
have  encouraged  me  to  have  been  explicit  at  the  time,  but  from 
my  inability  of  expressing  myself  verbally." 

She  then  goes  on  to  detail  precisely  her  pecuniary  circum 
stances,  by  which  it  appears  that  her  whole  dependence  for 
subsistence  was  on  an  allowance  of  thirteen  pounds  a  year 
from  her  cousin,  who  bestowed  it  through  a  feeling  of  pride, 
lest  his  relative  should  come  upon  the  parish.  During  two 
years  this  pittance  had  been  augmented  from  other  sources, 
to  twenty-three  pounds,  but  the  last  year  it  had  shrunk  within 
its  original  bounds,  and  was  yielded  so  grudgingly,  that  she 
could  not  feel  sure  of  its  continuance  from  one  quarter  to  an 
other.  More  than  once  it  had  been  withheld  on  slight  pre 
tences,  and  she  was  in  constant  dread  lest  it  should  be  en 
tirely  withdrawn. 

" It  is  with  extreme  reluctance,"  observed  she,  "that  I  have 
so  far  exposed  my  unfortunate  situation ;  but  I  thought  you 
expected  to  know  something  more  of  it,  and  I  feared  that 
Colonel  Wildman,  deceived  by  appearances,  might  think  that  I 
am  in  no  immediate  want,  and  that  the  delay  of  a  few  weeks, 
or  months,  respecting  the  inquiry,  can  be  of  no  material  con 
sequence.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  success  of  the  busi 
ness  that  Colonel  Wildman  should  know  the  exact  state  of  my 
circumstances  without  reserve,  that  he  maybe  enabled  to  make 
a  correct  representation  of  them  to  any  gentleman  whom  he 
intends  to  interest,  who,  I  presume,  if  they  are  not  of  America 
themselves,  have  some  connections  there,  through  whom  my 
friends  may  be  convinced  of  the  reality  of  my  distress,  if  they 
pretend  to  doubt  it,  as  I  suppose  they  do.  But  to  be  more  ex 
plicit  is  impossible ;  it  would  be  too  humiliating  to  particularize 
the  circumstances  of  the  embarrassment  in  which  I  am  un 
happily  involved— my  utter  destitution.  To  disclose  all  might, 
too,  be  liable  to  an  inference  which  I  hope  I  am  not  so  void  of 
delicacy,  of  natural  pride,  as  to  endure  the  thought  of.  Pardon 
me,  madam,  for  thus  giving  trouble,  where  I  have  no  right  to 
do— compelled  to  throw  myself  upon  Colonel  Wildman's  hu 
manity,  to  entreat  his  earnest  exertions  in  my  behalf,  for  it  is 
now  my  only  resource.  Yet  do  not  too  much  despise  me  for 


THE  LITTLE   WHITE  LADY.  121 

thus  submitting  to  imperious  necessity — it  is  not  love  of  life, 
believe  me  it  is  not,  nor  anxiety  for  its  preservation.  I  cannot 
say,  '  There  are  things  that  make  the  world  dear  to  me,'— for  in 
the  world  there  is  not  an  object  to  make  me  wish  to  linger 
here  another  hour,  could  I  find  that  rest  and  peace  in  the  grave 
which  I  have  never  found  on  earth,  and  I  fear  will  be  denied 
me  there." 

Another  part  of  her  letter  develops  more  completely  the  dark 
despondency  hinted  at  in  the  conclusion  of  the  foregoing  ex 
tract—and  presents  a  lamentable  instance  of  a  mind  diseased, 
which  sought  in  vain,  amidst  sorrow  and  calamity,  the  sweet 
consolations  of  religious  faith. 

"That  my  existence  has  hitherto  been  prolonged,"  says  she, 
' '  often  beyond  what  I  have  thought  to  have  been  its  destined 
period,  is  astonishing  to  myself.  Often  when  my  situation  has 
been  as  desperate,  as  hopeless,  or  more  so,  if  possible,  than  it  is 
at  present,  some  unexpected  interposition  of  Providence  has 
rescued  me  from  a  fate  that  has  appeared  inevitable.  I  do  not 
particularly  allude  to  recent  circumstances  or  latter  years,  for 
from  my  earlier  years  I  have  been  the  child  of  Providence — 
then  why  should  I  distrust  its  care  now?  I  do  not  distrust  it 
— neither  do  I  trust  it.  I  feel  perfectly  unanxious,  uncon 
cerned,  and  indifferent  as  to  the  future ;  but  this  is  not  trust  in 
Providence — not  that  trust  which  alone  claims  it  protections.  I 
know  this  is  a  blamable  indifference — it  is  more — for  it  reaches 
to  the  interminable  future.  It  turns  almost  with  disgust  from 
the  bright  prospects  which  religion  offers  for  the  consolation 
and  support  of  the  wretched,  and  to  which  I  was  early  taught, 
by  an  almost  adored  mother,  to  look  forward  with  hope  and 
joy;  but  to  me  they  can  afford  no  consolation.  Not  that  I 
doubt  the  sacred  truths  that  religion  inculcates.  I  cannot  doubt 
—though  I  confess  I  have  sometimes  tried  to  do  so,  because  I 
no  longer  wish  for  that  immortality  of  which  it  assures  us. 
My  only  wish  now  is  for  rest  and  peace — endless  rest.  '  For 
rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest, '  but  I  cannot  delude  myself  with 
the  hope  that  such  rest  will  be  my  lot.  I  feel  an  internal  evi 
dence,  stronger  than  any  arguments  that  reason  or  religion  can 
enforce,  that  I  have  that  within  me  which  is  imperishable ;  that 
drew  not  its  origin  from  the  '  clod  of  the  valley.'  With  this 
conviction,  but  without  a  hope  to  brighten  the  prospect  of  that 
dread  future: 

"  '  I  dare  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
Yet  cannot  hope  for  peace  before,' 


122  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  Such  an  unhappy  frame  of  mind,  I  am  sure,  madam,  must 
excite  your  commiseration.  It  is  perhaps  owing,  in  part  at 
least,  to  the  solitude  in  which  I  have  lived,  I  may  say,  even  in 
the  midst  of  society ;  when  I  have  mixed  in  it ;  as  my  infirmi 
ties  entirely  exclude  me  from  that  sweet  intercourse  of  kindred 
spirits — that  sweet  solace  of  refined  conversation;  the  little 
intercourse  I  have  at  any  time  with  those  around  me  cannot  be 
termed  conversation — they  are  not  kindred  spirits — and  even 
where  circumstances  have  associated  me  (but  rarely  indeed) 
with  superior  and  cultivated  minds,  who  have  not  disdained  to 
admit  me  to  their  society,  they  could  not  by  all  their  generous 
efforts,  even  in  early  youth,  lure  from  my  dark  soul  the 
thoughts  that  loved  to  lie  buried  there,  nor  inspire  me  with  the 
courage  to  attempt  their  disclosure ;  and  yet  of  all  the  pleasures 
of  polished  lif e  which  fancy  has  often  pictured  to  me  in  such 
vivid  colors,  there  is  not  one  that  I  have  so  ardently  coveted 
as  that  sweep  reciprocation  of  ideas,  the  supreme  bliss  of  en 
lightened  minds  in  the  hour  of  social  converse.  But  this  I 
knew  was  not  decreed  for  me — 

"  '  Yet  this  was  in  my  nature—' 

out  since  the  loss  of  my  hearing  I  have  always  been  incapable 
of  verbal  conversation.  I  need  not,  however,  inform  you, 
madam,  of  this.  At  the  first  interview  with  which  you  favored 
me,  you  quickly  discovered  my  peculiar  unhappiness  in  this 
respect ;  you  perceived  from  my  manner  that  any  attempt  to 
draw  me  into  conversation  would  be  in  vain — had  it  been, 
otherwise,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  disdained  now  and 
then  to  have  soothed  the  lonely  wanderer  with  yours.  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  when  I  have  seen  you  in  the  walk,  that  yon 
seemed  to  wish  to  encourage  me  to  throw  myself  in  your  way. 
Pardon  me  if  my  imagination,  too  apt  to  beguile  me  with  such 
dear  illusions,  has  deceived  me  into  too  presumptuous  an  idea 
here.  You  must  have  observed  that  I  generally  endeavored 
to  avoid  both  you  and  Colonel  Wildman.  It  was  to  spare  your 
generous  hearts  the  pain  of  witnessing  distress  you  could  not 
alleviate.  Thus  cut  off,  as  it  were,  from  all  human  society,  I 
have  been  compelled  to  live  in  a  world  of  my  own,  and  certainly 
with  the  beings  with  which  my  world  is  peopled,  I  am  at  no 
loss  to  converse.  But,  though  I  love  solitude  and  am  never  in 
want  of  subjects  to  amuse  my  fancy,  yet  solitude  too  much  in 
dulged  in  must  necessarily  have  an  unhappy  effect  upon  the 
mind,  which,  when  left  to  seek  for  resources  wholly  within  it- 


THE  LITTLE   WHITE  LADY.  123 

self  will,  unavoidably,  in  hours  of  gloom  and  despondency, 
brood  over  corroding  thoughts  that  prey  upon  the  spirits,  and 
sometimes  terminate  in  confirmed  misanthropy— especially 
with  those  who,  from  constitution,  or  early  misfortunes,  are 
inclined  to  melancholy,  and  to  view  human  nature  in  its  dark 
shades.  And  have  I  not  cause  for  gloomy  reflections?  The 
utter  loneliness  of  my  lot  would  alone  have  rendered  existence 
a  curse  to  one  whom  nature  has  formed  glowing  with  all  the 
warmth  of  social  affection,  yet  without  an  object  on  which  to 
place  it — without  one  natural  connection,  one  earthly  friend  to 
appeal  to,  to  shield  me  from  the  contempt,  indignities,  and  in 
sults,  to  which  my  deserted  situation  continually  exposed  me." 

I  am  giving  long  extracts  from  this  letter,  yet  I  cannot  refrain 
from  subjoining  another  letter,  which  depicts  her  feelings  with 
respect  to  Newstead. 

"Permit  me,  madame,  again  to  request  your  and  Colonel 
Wildman's  acceptance  of  these  acknowledgments  which  I  can 
not  too  often  repeat,  for  your  unexampled  goodness  to  a  rude 
stranger.  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  taken  advantage  of  your 
extreme  good  nature  so  frequently  as  I  have.  I  should  have 
absented  myself  from  your  garden  during  the  stay  of  the 
company  at  the  Abbey,  but,  as  I  knew  I  must  be  gone  long 
before  they  would  leave  it,  I  could  not  deny  myself  the  indul 
gence,  as  you  so  freely  gave  me  your  permission  to  continue 
my  walks,  but  now  they  are  at  an  end.  I  have  taken  my  last 
farewell  of  every  dear  and  interesting  spot,  which  I  now  never 
hope  to  see  again,  unless  my  disembodied  spirit  may  be  per 
mitted  to  revisit  them. — Yet  O !  if  Providence  should  enable  me 
again  to  support  myself  with  any  degree  of  respectability,  and 
you  should  grant  me  some  little  humble  shed,  with  what  joy 
shall  I  return  and  renew  my  delightful  rambles.  But  dear  as 
Newstead  is  to  me,  I  will  never  again  come  under  the  same  un 
happy  circumstances  as  I  have  this  last  time — never  without 
the  means  of  at  least  securing  myself  from  contempt.  How 
dear,  how  very  dear  Newstead  is  to  me,  how  unconquerable 
the  infatuation  that  possesses  me,  I  am  now  going  to  give  a  too 
convincing  proof.  In  offering  to  your  acceptance  the  worthless 
trifles  that  will  accompany  this,  I  hope  you  will  believe  that 
I  have  no  view  to  your  amusement.  I  dare  not  hope  that 
the  consideration  of  their  being  the  products  of  your  own  gar 
den,  and  most  of  them  written  there,  in  my  little  tablet,  while 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  my  Altar — I  could  not,  I  cannot  resist  the 
earnest  desire  of  leaving  this  memorial  of  the  many  happy 


124  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

hours  I  have  there  enjoyed.  Oh  I  do  not  reject  them,  madam; 
suffer  them  to  remain  with  you,  and  if  you  should  deign  to 
honor  them  with  a  perusal,  when  you  read  them  repress,  if  you 
can,  the  smile  that  I  know  will  too  naturally  arise,  when  you 
recollect  the  appearance  of  the  wretched  being  who  has  dared 
to  devote  her  whole  soul  to  the  contemplation  of  such  more 
than  human  excellence.  Yet,  ridiculous  as  such  devotion  may 
appear  to  some,  I  must  take  leave  to  say,  that  if  the  sentiments 
which  I  have  entertained  for  that  exalted  being  could  be  duly 
appreciated,  I  trust  they  would  be  found  to  be  of  such  a  nature 
as  is  no  dishonor  even  for  him  to  have  inspired."  .... 

"I  am  now  coming  to  take  a  last,  last  view  of  scenes  too 
deeply  impressed  upon  my  memory  ever  to  be  effaced  even  by 
madness  itself.  O  madam !  may  you  never  know,  nor  be  able 
to  conceive  the  agony  I  endure  in  tearing  myself  from  all  that 
the  world  contains  of  dear  and  sacred  to  me :  the  only  spot  on 
earth  where  I  can  ever  hope  for  peace  or  comfort.  May  every 
blessing  the  world  has  to  bestow  attend  you,  or  rather,  may 
you  long,  long  live  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  delights  of  your 
own  paradise,  in  secret  seclusion  from  a  world  that  has  no  real 
blessings  to  bestow.  Now  I  go — but  O  might  I  dare  to  hope 
that  when  you  are  enjoying  these  blissful  scenes,  a  thought  of 
the  unhappy  wanderer  might  sometimes  cross  your  mind, 
how  soothing  would  such  an  idea  be,  if  I  dared  to  indulge  it  — 
could  you  see  my  heart  at  this  moment,  how  needless  would  it 
be  to  assure  you  of  the  respectful  gratitude,  the  affectionate 
esteem,  this  heart  must  ever  bear  you  both." 

The  effect  of  this  letter  upon  the  sensitive  heart  of  Mrs. 
Wildman  may  be  more  readily  conceived  than  expressed. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  give  a  home  to  this  poor  homeless 
being,  and  to  fix  her  in  the  midst  of  those  scenes  which  formed 
her  earthly  paradise.  She  communicated  her  wishes  to  Colo' 
nel  Wildman,  and  they  met  with  an  immediate  response  in  his 
generous  bosom.  It  was  settled  on  the  spot,  that  an  apartment 
should  be  fitted  up  for  the  Little  White  Lady  in  one  of  the  new 
farmhouses,  and  every  arrangement  made  for  her  comfortable 
and  permanent  maintenance  on  the  estate.  With  a  woman's 
prompt  benevolence,  Mrs.  Wildman,  before  she  laid  her  head 
upon  her  pillow,  wrote  the  following  letter  to  the  destitute 
stranger : 

"NEWSTEAD  ABBEY, 
"  Tuesday  night,  September  20, 1825. 

"  On  retiring  to  my  bedchamber  this  evening  I  have  opened 


THE  LITTLE   WHITE  LADY.  125 

your  letter,  and  cannot  lose  a  moment  in  expressing  to  you  the 
strong  interest  which  it  has  excited  both  hi  Colonel  Wildman 
and  myself,  from  the  details  of  your  peculiar  situation,  and  the 
delicate,  and,  let  me  add,  elegant  language  in  which  they  are 
conveyed.  I  am  anxious  that  my  note  should  reach  you  pre 
vious  to  your  departure  from  this  neighborhood,  and  should  be 
truly  happy  if,  by  any  arrangement  for  your  accommodation, 
1  could  prevent  the  necessity  of  your  undertaking  the  journey,  y 
Colonel  Wildman  begs  me  to  assure  you  that  he  will  use  his 
best  exertions  in  the  investigation  of  those  matters  which  you 
have  confided  to  him,  and  should  you  remain  here  at  present, 
or  return  again  after  a  short  absence,  I  trust  we  shall  find 
means  to  become  better  acquainted,  and  to  convince  you  of 
the  interest  I  feel,  and  the  real  satisfaction  it  would  afford  me 
to  contribute  in  any  way  to  your  comfort  and  happiness.  I 
will  only  now  add  my  thanks  for  the  little  packet  which  I 
received  with  your  letter,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  letter  has 
so  entirely  engaged  my  attention,  that  I  have  not  as  yet  had 
time  for  the  attentive  perusal  of  its  companion. 

"Believe  me,  dear  madam,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

"Yours  truly, 

"  LOUISA  WILDMAN." 

Early  the  next  morning  a  servant  was  dispatched  with  the 
letter  to  the  Weir  Mill  farm,  but  returned  with  the  inf ormation 
that  the  Little  White  Lady  had  set  off,  before  his  arrival,  in 
company  with  the  farmer's  wife,  in  a  cart  for  Nottingham,  to 
take  her  place  in  the  coach  for  London.  Mrs.  Wildman  ordered 
him  to  mount  horse  instantly,  follow  with  all  speed,  and  deliver 
the  letter  into  her  hand  before  the  departure  of  the  coach. 

The  bearer  of  good  tidings  spared  neither  whip  nor  spur,  and 
arrived  at  Nottingham  on  a  gallop.  On  entering  the  town,  a 
crowd  obstructed  him  in  the  principal  street.  He  checked  his 
horse  to  make  his  way  through  it  quietly.  As  the  crowd 
opened  to  the  right  and  left,  he  beheld  a  human  body  lying  on 
the  pavement. — It  was  the  corpse  of  the  Little  White  Lady! 

It  seems  that  on  arriving  in  town  and  dismounting  from  the 
cart,  the  farmer's  wife  had  parted  with  her  to  go  on  an  errand, 
and  the  White  Lady  continued  on  toward  the  coach-office.  In 
crossing  a  street  a  cart  came  along,  driven  at  a  rapid  rate. 
The  driver  called  out  to  her,  but  she  was  too  deaf  to  hear  his 
voice  or  tho  rattling  of  his  cart.  In  an  instant  she  was 
knocked  down  by  the  horse,  and  the  wheels  passed  over  her 
body,  and  she  died  without  a  groan. 


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